nstant,
but it left a vague fear behind it, as of the menace of a mortal
injury. It is a fact that Edward Henry blushed and grew gloomy--and
he scarcely knew why. He looked about him timidly, half defiantly.
A magnificently-arrayed woman in the row in front, somewhat to the
right, leaned back and towards him, and behind her fan said:

"You're the only manager here, Mr. Machin! How alive and alert you
are!" Her voice seemed to be charged with a hidden meaning.

"D'you think so?" said Edward Henry. He had no idea who she might be.
He had probably shaken hands with her at his stone-laying, but if
so he had forgotten her face. He was fast becoming one of the
oligarchical few who are recognized by far more people than they
recognize.

"A beautiful play!" said the woman. "Not merely poetic but
intellectual! And an extraordinarily acute criticism of modern
conditions!"

He nodded. "What do you think of the scenery?" he asked.

"Well, of course candidly," said the woman, "I think it's silly. I
daresay I'm old-fashioned." ...

"I daresay," murmured Edward Henry.

"They told me you were very ironic," said she, flushing but meek.

"They!" Who? Who in the world of London had been labelling him as
ironic? He was rather proud.

"I hope if you _do_ do this kind of play--and we're all looking to
you, Mr. Machin," said the lady, making a new start, "I hope you won't
go in for these costumes and scenery. That would never do!"

Again the stab of the needle!

"It wouldn't," he said.

"I'm delighted you think so," said she.

An orange telegram came travelling from hand to hand along that row
of stalls, and ultimately, after skipping a few persons, reached the
magnificently-arrayed woman, who read it, and then passed it to Edward
Henry.

"Splendid!" she exclaimed. "Splendid!"

Edward Henry read: "Released. Isabel."

"What does it mean?"

"It's from Isabel Joy--at Marseilles."

"Really!"

Edward Henry's ignorance of affairs round about the centre of the
universe was occasionally distressing--to himself in particular. And
just now he gravely blamed Mr. Marrier, who had neglected to post him
about Isabel Joy. But how could Marrier honestly earn his three
pounds a week if he was occupied night and day with the organizing and
management of these precious dramatic soirees? Edward Henry decided
that he must give Mr. Marrier a piece of his mind at the first
opportunity.

"Don't you know?" questioned the dame.

"How sho