nsers, and Sullivan lifted his tinted glass of gin-and-angostura, and
I, perceiving that such actions were expected of one in a theatrical
club, responsively lifted mine, and the glasses collided, and Sullivan
said:

"Here's to the end of the great family quarrel."

"I'm with you," said I.

And we sipped.

My father had quarrelled with his mother in an epoch when even musical
comedies were unknown, and the quarrel had spread, as family quarrels
do, like a fire or the measles. The punching of my head by Sullivan in
the extinct past had been one of its earliest consequences.

"May the earth lie lightly on them!" said Sullivan.

He was referring to the originators of the altercation. The tone in
which he uttered this wish pleased me--it was so gentle. It hinted
that there was more in Sullivan than met the eye, though a great deal
met the eye. I liked him. He awed me, and he also seemed to me
somewhat ridiculous in his excessive pomp. But I liked him.

The next instant we were talking about Sullivan Smith. How he
contrived to switch the conversation suddenly into that channel I
cannot imagine. Some people have a gift of conjuring with
conversations. They are almost always frankly and openly interested in
themselves, as Sullivan was interested in himself. You may seek to
foil them; you may even violently wrench the conversation into other
directions. But every effort will be useless. They will beat you. You
had much better lean back in your chair and enjoy their legerdemain.

In about two minutes Sullivan was in the very midst of his career.

"I never went in for high art, you know. All rot! I found I could
write melodies that people liked and remembered." (He was so used to
reading interviews with himself in popular weeklies that he had caught
the formalistic phraseology, and he was ready apparently to mistake
even his cousin for an interviewer. But I liked him.) "And I could get
rather classy effects out of an orchestra. And so I kept on. I didn't
try to be Wagner. I just stuck to Sullivan Smith. And, my boy, let me
tell you it's only five years since 'The Japanese Cat' was produced,
and I'm only twenty-seven, my boy! And now, who is there that doesn't
know me?" He put his elbows on the onyx. "Privately, between cousins,
you know, I made seven thousand quid last year, and spent half that. I
live on half my income; always have done; always shall. Good
principle! I'm a man of business, I am, Carl Foster. Give the p