or a long time, but I dare say there's a
part for you, Verschoyle.'

'No, thanks.'

'You could be one of the invisible spirits who eat the phantom supper.'

'You and Charles could do that very well,' said Clara, who felt that
her plans would succeed. These three men were held together by her
personality, and she meant them to unite for the purpose of forcing out
those qualities in Charles which made her ready for every sacrifice, if
only they could be brought to play their part in the life of his
time.... As the wine and food took effect, all three men were in high
spirits, and soon were roaring with laughter at the immense joke in
which they all shared, the joke of pleasing the British public.

'It is the most wonderful game ever invented,' said Sir Henry.
'Millions and millions of people believing everything they are told.
Shouting Hurrah! for fried fish if the hero of the moment says fried
fish, and Hooray! for ice-cream when the next hero says ice-cream....
I tell you I could put on a play by Halford Bunn to-morrow, and
persuade them for a few weeks that it was better than Shakespeare. Ah!
you blame us for that, but the public is at fault always. The man who
makes a fortune is the man who invents a new way of boring them.... We
shall be like the French soon, where the only means of maintaining any
interest in politics is by a scandal now and then.'

As they talked Clara felt more and more remote from them, and at
moments found it difficult to believe that it was really she to whom
all these amazing things had happened. She thought it must be the end.
Here at one table were money, imagination, and showmanship, the three
essentials of success, but the three men in whom they lived were
talking themselves into ineffectiveness. Even Verschoyle had caught
the fever and was talking, and she found herself thinking that the
three of them, whom separately she could handle so well, were together
too much for her.

They talked for hours, and she tried again and again vainly to steer
them back to business. They would have none of it. Their tongues were
loosed and they expressed their several discontents in malicious wit.

At last she left the table and took up Charles's portfolio. He sprang
to his feet and snatched it away from her rather roughly and said,--

'I don't want to show them yet.'

'It is getting late, Charles,' she protested.

'In Moscow,' he said, 'a feast like this goes on for days.'

Sir Hen