savory. The first performance of the drama of
"Cagliostro" had just taken place, and, as the first nights at the
Parthenon are invariably regarded as the most exclusive functions of the
year, the stalls and boxes had been crowded. And the distinction which
in Mayfair and Belgravia attaches to those who have been in the boxes
and stalls on Parthenon first night is not greater than that which,
in Bloomsbury and Camden Town, accrues to those who have occupied
places--not necessarily seats--in the other parts of the house. It is
understood, too, that the good will of Bloomsbury and Camden Town
is much more valuable to a play than the best wishes of Mayfair and
Belgravia.

The gracious manager had made his customary speech of thanks,--for
everything produced at the Parthenon was a success,--and while the
general audience were moving away very reluctantly, some distinguished
men and women followed the guidance of a strong Irish brogue as a flock
follows a bell-wether, through a door that led to the stage. Here
the great actor and the ever-charming lady who divided with him
the affections of West as well as East, received their guests'
congratulations in such a way as made the guests feel that the success
was wholly due to their good will.

Mrs. Linton, who was a personage in society,--her husband had found a
gold mine (with the assistance of Herbert Courtland) and she had herself
written a book of travels which did not sell,--had brought Phyllis with
her party to the theater, and they had gone on the stage with the other
notabilities, at the conclusion of the performance. George Holland,
having become as great a celebrity as the best of them during that
previous fortnight, had naturally received a stall and an invitation to
the stage at the conclusion of the performance. He had not been of Mrs.
Linton's party, but he lay in wait for that party as they emerged from
their box.

Another man also lay in wait for them, and people--outsiders--nudged
one another in the theater as the passers down Piccadilly had nudged one
another, whispering his name, Herbert Courtland. Others--they were not
quite such outsiders--nudged one another when Mrs. Linton laid down her
new feather fan on the ledge of the box. It was possibly the loveliest
thing that existed in the world at that moment. No artist had
ever dreamed of so wonderful a scheme of color--such miracles
of color--combinations in every feather from the quill to the
spider-web-lik