sked because there is a tradition in society that I am a wit. If I
speak of the gloomiest subjects people snicker; if I am eloquent or
pathetic, they roar. I am by nature rather a lyric poet than a wit--ah,
you are laughing, Mrs. Carey, you are laughing. What did I tell you?"

"But, my dear Mr. Sydney, you are funny, really you are."

"I am funny because I mean to be serious," said Mr. Sydney. "In these
days of the decadence of civilization if a man is in earnest, terribly
in earnest, people think that he is vastly amusing. I shall try to be
funny soon, to earn my wage, and people will think me dull enough then."

The poor man drank a large glass of wine and pointing at the _entree_
upon his plate asked:

"Mrs. Carey, can a man who expects daily to be gathered to his fathers
eat a _vol-au-vent_ of pigeons _a la financiere_? How can it be
expected? They should not tempt me with such dishes. I know that I ought
not to eat them, but I cannot resist. I partake of them and I do not
sleep. I have not closed my eyes for three nights."

He began to eat his _vol-au-vent_ with the appetite of a boy of
fourteen.

"Poor old fellow," whispered Mrs. Carey to Geoffrey. "He knows that he
must be amusing on this visit else Jawkins will strike him off his list.
It is lucky that I only have to look beautiful. It is no exertion
whatever. While poor old Sydney knows that something is expected of him,
and as he naturally likes to talk about statistics and his physical
ailments, and as he gained his reputation as a wit from a single
repartee made at a dinner twenty years ago, he finds it hard to fulfil
his part. He is simply funny because he isn't. It's a strange paradox."

"It must, indeed, be a hard task, making one's self a brick without
straw," answered Geoffrey. "Think of not having the luxury of being
disagreeable--to be always on the rack to perpetrate a joke, Mrs.
Carey."

"You did not call me Mrs. Carey when we last met," she said,
reproachfully.

"But you were not Mrs. Carey then, and, not being a prophet, I could not
very well call you so."

"Do not be flippant. But if we were prophets what a dreadful thing life
would be! It did not seem possible seven years ago that Eleanor Leigh
would become a professional beauty, a hired guest, who lived upon the
royalty from the sale of her photographs."

"You can congratulate yourself that yours is the only 'royalty' left in
the country, Eleanor." He lowered his voice as he spoke