e Louvre, so at Mrs. Ashton Portway's,
his outer garments were taken forcibly from him, and a ticket given to
him in exchange. The ticket startled him, especially as he saw no notice
on the walls that the management would not be responsible for articles
not deposited in the cloakroom. Nobody inquired about his identity, and
without further ritual he was asked to ascend towards regions whence
came the faint sound of music. At the top of the stairs a young and
handsome man, faultless alike in costume and in manners, suavely
accosted him.

'What name, sir?'

'Knight,' said Henry gruffly. The young man thought that Henry was on
the point of losing his temper from some cause or causes unknown,
whereas Henry was merely timid.

Then the music ceased, and was succeeded by violent chatter; the young
man threw open a door, and announced in loud clear tones, which Henry
deemed ridiculously loud and ridiculously clear:

'MR. KNIGHT!'

Henry saw a vast apartment full of women's shoulders and black patches
of masculinity; the violent chatter died into a profound silence; every
face was turned towards him. He nearly fell down dead on the doormat,
and then, remembering that life was after all sweet, he plunged into the
room as into the sea.

When he came up breathless and spluttering, Mrs. Ashton Portway (in
black and silver) was introducing him to her husband, Mr. Ashton
Portway, known to a small circle of readers as Raymond Quick, the author
of several mild novels issued at his own expense. Mr. Portway was rich
in money and in his wife; he had inherited the money, and his literary
instincts had discovered the wife in a publisher's daughter. The union
had not been blessed with children, which was fortunate, since Mrs.
Portway was left free to devote the whole of her time to the
encouragement of literary talent in the most unliterary of cities.

Henry rather liked Mr. Ashton Portway, whose small black eyes seemed to
say: 'That's all right, my friend. I share your ideas fully. When you
want a quiet whisky, come to me.'

'And what have you been doing this dark day?' Mrs. Ashton Portway began,
with her snigger.

'Well,' said Henry, 'I dropped into the National Gallery this afternoon,
but really it was so----'

'The National Gallery?' exclaimed Mrs. Ashton Portway swiftly. 'I must
introduce you to Miss Marchrose, the author of that charming hand-book
to _Pictures in London_. Miss Marchrose,' she called out, urging Henry
towar