forms,
which showed in grotesquely baggy and bulgy shapes in the uncertain
light. Some of them wore immense and curious white head-dresses, which
gave them the appearance of poulticed thumbs; and they all went on
scraping and twiddling and caterwauling with a doleful monotony that
Horace felt must be getting on his guests' nerves, as it certainly was
on his own.

He did not know how to get rid of them, but he sketched a kind of
gesture in the air, intended to intimate that, while their efforts had
afforded the keenest pleasure to the company generally, they were
unwilling to monopolise them any longer, and the artists were at liberty
to retire.

Perhaps there is no art more liable to misconstruction than pantomime;
certainly, Ventimore's efforts in this direction were misunderstood, for
the music became wilder, louder, more aggressively and abominably out of
tune--and then a worse thing happened.

For the curtains separated, and, heralded by sharp yelps from the
performers, a female figure floated into the hall and began to dance
with a slow and sinuous grace.

Her beauty, though of a pronounced Oriental type, was unmistakable, even
in the subdued light which fell on her; her diaphanous robe indicated a
faultless form; her dark tresses were braided with sequins; she had the
long, lustrous eyes, the dusky cheeks artificially whitened, and the
fixed scarlet smile of the Eastern dancing-girl of all time.

And she paced the floor with her tinkling feet, writhing and undulating
like some beautiful cobra, while the players worked themselves up to yet
higher and higher stages of frenzy.

Ventimore, as he sat there looking helplessly on, felt a return of his
resentment against the Jinnee. It was really too bad of him; he ought,
at his age, to have known better!

Not that there was anything objectionable in the performance itself; but
still, it was _not_ the kind of entertainment for such an occasion.
Horace wished now he had mentioned to Fakrash who the guests were whom
he expected, and then perhaps even the Jinnee would have exercised more
tact in his arrangements.

"And does this girl come from Earl's Court?" inquired Mrs. Futvoye, who
was now thoroughly awake.

"Oh dear, no," said Horace; "I engaged _her_ at--at Harrod's--the
Entertainment Bureau. They told me there she was rather good--struck out
a line of her own, don't you know. But perfectly correct; she--she only
does this to support an invalid aunt."

The