ment of the gas-handles just over
his head.

And now came in the comic interlude which Lionel had feared most of
all--the squire's faithful henchman going through all the phases of
getting drunk in double-quick stage-time; and, while those stupidities
were going forward, Lionel and Miss Burgoyne were supposed to retire up
the stage somewhat and look on. Well, they took up their
positions--Grace Mainwaring being seated.

"Your giraffe is rather handsome," she said, behind her fan.

"I believe she is considered to be one of the best-looking women in
England," said he, somewhat stiffly.

"Oh, really! Well, of course, tastes differ," Miss Grace Mainwaring
said. "I don't think a woman should have blacking-brushes instead of
eyebrows. But it's a matter of taste."

"Yes," said he, "and comic opera is the sort of place where one's taste
becomes so refined. What do you think of this gag now? Is this what the
public like--when they come to hear music?"

"You're very fastidious--you want everything to be super-fine--but you
may depend on it that it keeps the piece going with the pit and
gallery."

His answer to that was one of this young lady's strangest experiences of
the stage: Lionel Moore had suddenly left her, and, indeed, quitted this
scene, in which he was supposed to be a chief figure. He walked down the
wings until he found himself close to Miss Honnor Cunyngham.

"Miss Cunyngham," he said.

She turned--her eyes somewhat bewildered by the glare of light on the
stage.

"Come back, please," he said. "I don't want you to see this scene--it
has nothing to do with the operetta--and it is dull and stupid and
tedious beyond description."

She followed him two or three steps, wondering.

"You say you like the music," he continued, here in the twilight of the
wings, "and the little story is really rather pretty and idyllic; but
they _will_ go and introduce a lot of music-hall stuff to please the
groundlings. I should prefer you not to see it. Won't you rather wait a
little, and talk about something?--it isn't often you and I meet. Did
you get many salmon after I left Strathaivron?"

"Oh, no," said she, still rather surprised. "Towards the end of the
season the red fish are really not worth landing."

"It seems a long time since then," he said. "I find myself sitting up at
night and thinking over all those experiences--making pictures of
them--and the hours go by in a most astonishing fashion. Here in London,
amo