st a hint in that triumphant harmony that the
seventh had been struck along with the octave by the thumb of the left
hand; but the general effect of splendid noise emerged clearly enough.
Small details matter little so long as the general effect is good. And,
besides, that hint of the seventh was decidedly modern. He turned round
in his seat and tossed the hair back out of his eyes.

"There," he said. "That's the best I can do for you, I'm afraid."

Murmurs of applause and gratitude were heard, and Mary, her large china
eyes fixed on the performer, cried out aloud, "Wonderful!" and gasped
for new breath as though she were suffocating.

Nature and fortune had vied with one another in heaping on Ivor
Lombard all their choicest gifts. He had wealth and he was perfectly
independent. He was good looking, possessed an irresistible charm of
manner, and was the hero of more amorous successes than he could well
remember. His accomplishments were extraordinary for their number and
variety. He had a beautiful untrained tenor voice; he could improvise,
with a startling brilliance, rapidly and loudly, on the piano. He was a
good amateur medium and telepathist, and had a considerable first-hand
knowledge of the next world. He could write rhymed verses with an
extraordinary rapidity. For painting symbolical pictures he had a
dashing style, and if the drawing was sometimes a little weak, the
colour was always pyrotechnical. He excelled in amateur theatricals
and, when occasion offered, he could cook with genius. He resembled
Shakespeare in knowing little Latin and less Greek. For a mind like his,
education seemed supererogatory. Training would only have destroyed his
natural aptitudes.

"Let's go out into the garden," Ivor suggested. "It's a wonderful
night."

"Thank you," said Mr. Scogan, "but I for one prefer these still more
wonderful arm-chairs." His pipe had begun to bubble oozily every time he
pulled at it. He was perfectly happy.

Henry Wimbush was also happy. He looked for a moment over his pince-nez
in Ivor's direction and then, without saying anything, returned to
the grimy little sixteenth-century account books which were now his
favourite reading. He knew more about Sir Ferdinando's household
expenses than about his own.

The outdoor party, enrolled under Ivor's banner, consisted of Anne,
Mary, Denis, and, rather unexpectedly, Jenny. Outside it was warm and
dark; there was no moon. They walked up and down the terrac