He watched his wife and his friend chatting together as equals in The Daily Picture.  Yes, Eve was wonderful, and but for sheer hazard he would never have known how wonderful she was capable of being.

“You’ve got a great show here to-night, old man,” said a low, mysterious voice at his side.  Mr. Softly Bishop was smiling down his nose and holding out his hand while looking at nothing but his nose.

“Hello, Bishop!” said Mr. Prohack, controlling a desire to add:  “I’d no idea you’d been invited!”

“Samples of every world—­except the next,” said Mr. Softly Bishop.  “And now the theatrical contingent is arriving after its night’s work.”

“Do you know who that fellow is?” Mr. Prohack demanded, indicating a little man with the aspect of a prize-fighter who was imperially conveying to Mrs. Prohack that Mrs. Prohack was lucky to get him to her reception.

“Why!” replied Mr. Bishop.  “That’s the Napoleon of the stage.”

“Not Asprey Chown!”

“Asprey Chown.”

“Great Scott!” And Mr. Prohack laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Mere glee.  This is the crown of my career as a man of the world.”  He saw Mr. Asprey Chown give a careless brusque nod to Ozzie Morfey, and he laughed again.

“It’s rather comic, isn’t it?” Mr. Softly Bishop acquiesced.  “I wonder why Oswald Morfey has abandoned his famous stock for an ordinary necktie.”

“Probably because he’s going to be my son-in-law,” said Mr. Prohack.

“Ah!” ejaculated Mr. Softly Bishop.  “I congratulate him.”

Mr. Prohack looked grim in order to conceal his joy in the assurance that he would sleep that night, and in the sensations produced by the clear fact that Lady Massulam was still interested in him.  Somehow he wanted to dance, not with any woman, but by himself, a reel.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Mr. Softly Bishop.  “You are shining to-night.  Here’s Eliza Fiddle, and that’s her half-sister Miss Fancy behind her.”

And it was Eliza Fiddle, and the ageing artiste with her ravaged complexion and her defiant extra-vivacious mien created instantly an impression such as none but herself could have created.  The entire assemblage stared, murmuring its excitement, at the renowned creature.  Eliza loved the stare and the murmur.  She was like a fish dropped into water after a gasping spell in mere air.

“I admit I was in too much of a hurry when I spoke of having reached the zenith,” said Mr. Prohack.  “I’m only just getting there now.  And who’s the half-sister?”

“She’s not precisely unknown on the American stage,” answered Mr. Softly Bishop.  “But before we go any further I’d perhaps better tell you a secret.”  His voice and his gaze dropped still lower.  “She’s a particularly fine girl, and it won’t be my fault if I don’t marry her.  Not a word of course!  Mum!” He turned away, while Mr. Prohack was devising a suitable response.