and brilliants.

"It's rather pretty," Jenny commented without enthusiasm. In her heart
she loved the old-fashioned trinket, and wanted to show her delight to
Maurice; but the presence of Castleton was a barrier, and she was
strangely afraid of tears that seemed not far away. Maurice, who was by
now thoroughly miserable, offered to pin the brooch where it would look
most charming; but Jenny said she would put it in her bag, and he sat
back in the chair biting his lips and hating Castleton for not
immediately getting up and going home. The latter, realizing something
was the matter, tried to change the subject.

"What about this Second Empire masquerade at Covent Garden?"

"I don't think we shall be able to bring it off. Ronnie Walker would be
ridiculous as Balzac."

"There are others."

"Besides, I don't think I want to be Theophile Gautier."

"Don't be, then," advised Castleton.

"Anyway, it's a rotten idea," declared Maurice.

"What extraordinary tacks your opinions do take!" retorted his friend.
"Only this afternoon you were full of the most glittering plans and had
found a prototype in 1850 for half your friends."

"I've been thinking it over," said Maurice. "And I'm sure we can't work
it."

"Good-by, Gustave Flaubert," said Castleton. "I confess I regret
Flaubert; especially if I could have persuaded Mrs. Wadman to be George
Sand and smoke a cigar. However, perhaps it's just as well."

"Who's Mrs. Wadman?" asked Jenny.

"The aged female iniquity who 'does' for Maurice and me at Grosvenor
Road. I'm sure on second thoughts it would be unwise to let her acquire
the cigar habit. I might be rich next year, and I should hate to see her
dusting with a Corona stuck jauntily between toothless gums."

"Oh, don't be funny," said Maurice. "You've no idea how annoying you are
sometimes. Confound you, waiter," he cried, turning to vent his temper
in another direction. "I ordered Munich and you've brought Pilsener."

"Very sorry, sir," apologized the waiter.

"It was I who demanded the blond beer," Castleton explained. Then, as
the waiter retired, he said:

"Why not get him to come as Balzac?"

"Who?"

"The waiter."

"Don't be funny any more," Maurice begged wearily.

"Poor Fuz," said Jenny. "You're crushed."

"I now know the meaning of Blake's worm that flies in the heart of the
storm."

Even Castleton was ultimately affected by the general depression; and
Jenny at last broke the silence by saying sh