inutes later half shipwrecked
and wholly demoralized. But Darco was a general who could spare his
forces, and three days before the play was announced for production he
addressed his army:

'Laties and chentlemen, I nefer pelieve in worrying peoples. You haf all
done noply. Tomorrow there will be no call. Next day at eleven sharp,
eferything as at the broduction. Then it will debend upon yourselves
whether you are galled upon to rehearse again or no.'

With this all engaged dispersed well pleased, and Darco announced his
intention of dining and going to bed. He ordered dinner for two, and ate
his double portion through seven courses, after which he went tranquilly
home to his hotel and slept the clock round.

The rehearsal next day was so completely satisfactory that he was
content to leave it on its merits, and on the following evening the
first production of the new management at the Congreve went with a roar
of triumph. There was no mistaking the verdict of the house, and the
Press was as emphatic as the first night's audience.

'Vod did I dell you?' Darco asked. 'Vame and vorchune are at your veed.
It vos a luggy day for us to meet. Vot? Not? I am Cheorge Darga!'

Paul was tired, excited, and elated all at once. He had promised to
start for Belgium so soon as the verdict of the public was made clear,
but he could afford to snatch the journey down to Castle Barfield, and
to get a glimpse of the old father. He slept on the journey, and took
the last five miles by cab. Armstrong was in his accustomed place
amongst the dusty and neglected stock when Paul broke in upon him,
somewhat grayer than ever, a little more bent, perhaps, but with just
the old look of wise patience in his face, the shaggy eyebrows fringing
just the old quiet twinkle in his eyes. He declined to express the least
atom of surprise.

'It's you, Paul, is it?' he asked tranquilly, rising to shake hands.
'You've had a grand success, I'm learning. I read the notice in the
_Times_.'

'The play's all right,' said Paul. 'And how's all here?'

'Oh,' said his father, 'we have our dwallin' in the middle parts of
fortune. We're neither uplifted nor cast down. Come in, lad. Well all be
glad to see ye.'

The old place was exactly as it always had been in his memory, and
yet it was all shrunken and narrowed, and had grown meaner and more
poverty-stricken than it had used to seem.

He settled down in his old place by the fireside, lit his pipe, listened