“Welcome to your old home.  And do come with me to the buffet.  You must be tired after your work,” Mr. Prohack burst out in a bold, loud voice to Eliza, taking her away from his wife, whose nearly exhausted tact almost failed to hide her relief.

“I do hope you like the taste of my old home,” Eliza answered.  “My new house up the river is furnished throughout in real oriental red lacquer.  You must come and see it.”

“I should love to,” said Mr. Prohack bravely.

“This is my little sister, Miss Fancy.  Fan, Mr. Prohack.”

Mr. Prohack expressed his enchantment.

At the buffet Eliza did not refuse champagne, but Miss Fancy refused.  “Now don’t put on airs, Fan,” Eliza reproved her sister heartily and drank off her glass while Mr. Prohack sipped his somewhat cautiously.  He liked Eliza’s reproof.  He was beginning even to like Eliza.  To say that her style was coarse was to speak in moderation; but she was natural, and her individuality seemed to be sending out waves in all directions, by which all persons in the vicinity were affected whether they desired it or not.  Mr. Prohack met Eliza’s glance with satisfaction.  She at any rate had nothing to learn about life that she was capable of learning.  She knew everything—­and was probably the only creature in the room who did.  She had succeeded.  She was adored—­strangely enough.  And she did not put on airs.  Her original coarseness was apparently quite unobscured, whereas that of Miss Fancy had been not very skilfully painted over.  Miss Fancy was a blonde, much younger than Eliza; also slimmer and more finickingly and luxuriously dressed and jewelled.  But Mr. Prohack cared not for her.  She was always keeping her restless inarticulate lips in order, buttoning them or sewing them up or caressing one with the other.  Further, she looked down her nose; probably this trait was the secret lien between her and Mr. Softly Bishop.  Mr. Prohack, despite a cloistral lifetime at the Treasury, recognised her type immediately.  She was of the type that wheedles, but never permits itself to be wheedled.  And she was so pretty, and so simpering, and her blue eyes were so steely.  And Mr. Prohack, in his original sinfulness, was pleased that she was thus.  He felt that “it would serve Softly Bishop out.”  Not that Mr. Softly Bishop had done him any harm!  Indeed the contrary.  But he had an antipathy to Mr. Softly Bishop, and the spectacle of Mr. Softly Bishop biting off more than he could chew, of Mr. Softly Bishop being drawn to his doom, afforded Mr. Prohack the most genuine pleasure.  Unfortunately Mr. Prohack was one of the rare monsters who can contemplate with satisfaction the misfortunes of a fellow being.

Mr. Softly Bishop unostentatiously joined the sisters and Mr. Prohack.

“Better have just a sip,” he said to Miss Fancy, when told by Eliza that the girl would not be sociable.  His eyes glimmered at her through his artful spectacles.  She listened obediently to his low-voiced wisdom and sipped.  She was shooting a million fascinations at him.  Mr. Prohack decided that the ultimate duel between the two might be a pretty even thing after all; but he would put his money on the lady.  And he had thought Mr. Softly Bishop so wily!