The morning of Mrs. Bergmann’s luncheon had arrived.  She had asked thirteen men and nine women.

But an hour before luncheon an incident happened which nearly drove Mrs. Bergmann distracted.  One of her guests, who was also one of her most intimate friends, Mrs. Lockton, telephoned to her saying she had quite forgotten, but she had asked on that day a man to luncheon whom she did not know, and who had been sent to her by Walford, the famous professor.  She ended the message by saying she would bring the stranger with her.

“What is his name?” asked Mrs. Bergmann, not without intense irritation, meaning to put a veto on the suggestion.

“His name is——­” and at that moment the telephone communication was interrupted, and in spite of desperate efforts Mrs. Bergmann was unable to get on to Mrs. Lockton again.  She reflected that it was quite useless for her to send a message saying that she had no room at her table, because Angela Lockton would probably bring the stranger all the same.  Then she further reflected that in the excitement caused by the presence of Shakespeare it would not really much matter whether there was a stranger there or not.  A little before half-past one the guests began to arrive.  Lord Pantry of Assouan, the famous soldier, was the first comer.  He was soon followed by Professor Morgan, an authority on Greek literature; Mr. Peebles, the ex-Prime Minister; Mrs. Hubert Baldwin, the immensely popular novelist; the fascinating Mrs. Rupert Duncan, who was lending her genius to one of Ibsen’s heroines at that moment; Miss Medea Tring, one of the latest American beauties; Corporal, the portrait-painter; Richard Giles, critic and man of letters; Hereward Blenheim, a young and rising politician, who before the age of thirty had already risen higher than most men of sixty; Sir Horace Silvester, K.C.M.G., the brilliant financier, with his beautiful wife Lady Irene; Professor Leo Newcastle, the eminent man of science; Lady Hyacinth Gloucester, and Mrs. Milden, who were well known for their beauty and charm; Osmond Hall, the paradoxical playwright; Monsieur Faubourg, the psychological novelist; Count Sciarra, an Italian nobleman, about fifty years old, who had written a history of the Popes, and who was now staying in London; Lady Herman, the beauty of a former generation, still extremely handsome; and Willmott, the successful actor-manager.  They were all assembled in the drawing-room upstairs, talking in knots and groups, and pervaded by a feeling of pleasurable excitement and expectation, so much so that conversation was intermittent, and nearly everybody was talking about the weather.  The Right Hon. John Lockton, the eminent lawyer, was the last guest to arrive.

“Angela will be here in a moment,” he explained; “she asked me to come on first.”

Mrs. Bergmann grew restless.  It was half-past one, and no Shakespeare.  She tried to make her guests talk, with indifferent success.  The expectation was too great.  Everybody was absorbed by the thought of what was going to happen next.  Ten minutes passed thus, and Mrs. Bergmann grew more and more anxious.