se example is followed, it must be confessed, by
most of the women in the room. Is Mr. Rush-Marvelle here? Oh yes--after
some little trouble we discover him,--squeezed against the wall and
barricaded by the grand piano,--in company with a large album, over
which he pores, feigning an almost morbid interest in the portraits of
persons he has never seen, and never will see. Beside him is a
melancholy short man with long hair and pimples, who surveys the
increasing crowd in the room with an aspect that is almost tragic. Once
or twice he eyes Mr. Marvelle dubiously as though he would speak--and,
finally, he _does_ speak, tapping that album-entranced gentleman on the
arm with an energy that is somewhat startling.

"It is to blay I am here!" he announces. "To blay ze biano! I am great
artist!" He rolls his eyes wildly and with a sort of forced calmness
proceeds to enumerate on his fingers--"Baris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin, St.
Betersburg--all know me! All resbect me! See!" And he holds out his
button-hole in which there is a miniature red ribbon. "From ze Emberor!
Kaiser Wilhelm!" He exhibits a ring on his little finger. "From ze
Tsar!" Another rapid movement and a pompous gold watch is thrust before
the bewildered gaze of his listener. "From my bubils in Baris! I am
bianist--I am here to blay!"

And raking his fingers through his long locks, he stares defiantly
around him. Mr. Rush-Marvelle is a little frightened. This is an
eccentric personage--he must be soothed. Evidently he must be soothed!

"Yes, yes, I quite understand!" he says, nodding persuasively at the
excited genius. "You are here to play. Exactly! Yes, yes! We shall all
have the pleasure of hearing you presently. Delightful, I'm sure! You
are the celebrated Herr--?"

"Machtenklinken," adds the pianist haughtily. "Ze celebrated
Machtenklinken!"

"Yes--oh--er,--yes!" And Mr. Marvelle grapples desperately with this
terrible name. "Oh--er--yes! I--er know you by reputation
Herr--er--Machten--. Oh, er--yes! Pray excuse me for a moment!"

And thankfully catching the commanding eye of his wife, he scrambles
hastily away from the piano and joins her. She is talking to the Van
Clupps, and she wants him to take away Mr. Van Clupp, a white-headed,
cunning-looking old man, for a little conversation, in order that she
may be free to talk over certain naughty bits of scandal with Mrs. Van
Clupp and Marcia.

To-night there is no place to sit down in all the grand extent of