Mrs. Linton achieved both the objects which, as a good hostess, she had in view. Mr. Holland put in an appearance in one of Mrs. Linton's big drawing rooms, and so did Phyllis Ayrton.

Everyone admitted that only a woman of the social capacity--some people called it genius--of Mrs. Linton could accomplish such a feat as the bringing into the same room two persons who had given unmistakable evidence of possessing a conscience apiece--the woman who had sacrificed the man for conscience' sake, and the man who had sacrificed the woman under the same influence. It was a social triumph, beyond doubt.

People talked in whispers of conscience, the advantages and the disadvantages of its possession, and the consensus of opinion was of its being quite appropriate in regard to a clergyman, and that it was not altogether out of place on the part of a spinster, provided that she had counteracting virtues; but, on the whole, it was perhaps wiser to leave the conscience with the Nonconformists.

Phyllis did not see George Holland until she had got halfway up the first of Mrs. Linton's rooms. She did not hear her friend Ella say to someone, in a low voice of apprehension:

"For Heaven's sake, keep them apart! They are just the sort of people to greet each other quite cordially; and if they do, no one here will believe that their engagement is off. People here don't understand how a delicate conscience works."

That was what Ella murmured to a man who had been invited in order that he might make himself generally useful. She gave him his instructions too late, however. Before she had quite completed her greeting of Phyllis, Mr. Holland was beside them.

He had not forced himself forward with any measure of persistency; no one seemed to notice any movement on his part until he had shaken hands with Phyllis, and was chatting with her and Mrs. Linton quite pleasantly--much too pleasantly for a man with a conscience, someone said later in the afternoon; but that was someone who wanted to talk to Phyllis himself.

People watched her when she suffered herself to be gradually withdrawn from the center of the room to a seat that chanced to be vacant, just behind the open door of the conservatory. Could it be possible, they asked one another, that she had indeed given his dismissal to Mr.

Holland the previous week? Why, they were chatting together as pleasantly as they had ever chatted. Had not the people who talked so glibly of conscience and its mysterious operations spoken a little too soon? Or had the quarrel been patched up? If so, which of the two had got rid of the conscience that had brought about the original rupture?

These questions were answered at divers places by divers persons, all the time that George Holland and Phyllis Ayrton remained side by side at the entrance to the conservatory, at the further end of which a vocal quartette party sang delightfully--delightfully; sufficiently loud to enable all the guests who wanted to talk to do so without inconvenience, and at the same time not so loud as to become obtrusive. It is so seldom that a quartette party manage to hit this happy medium, people said.

They generally sing as if they fancy that people come together to hear them, not remembering that the legitimate object of music at an At Home is to act as an accompaniment to the conversation.

When Phyllis was leaving the house half an hour later, a man was just entering the first drawing room--a man with a face burnt to the color of an old mezzotint.

He looked at her for a moment as he pa.s.sed her, for her face had suddenly lighted up, as such a face as hers does upon occasions.

The man could scarcely fail to perceive that she knew his name was Herbert Courtland.

But then he was accustomed to be recognized by women as well as men in every part of Europe, since he had returned from New Guinea with the tail feathers of the meteor-bird, which were now being made into a fan for Mrs. Linton.

CHAPTER IX.

MY FATHER HAS HIS IDEAS ON WHAT'S CALLED REALISM.

The last rumble of applause had died away at the Parthenon Theater, but the audience were leaving very slowly; they wished to linger as long as possible within the atmosphere of the building; though, like the atmosphere of many sacred places, that of the Parthenon was, just at that time, a trifle unsavory. The first performance of the drama of "Cagliostro" had just taken place, and, as the first nights at the Parthenon are invariably regarded as the most exclusive functions of the year, the stalls and boxes had been crowded. And the distinction which in Mayfair and Belgravia attaches to those who have been in the boxes and stalls on Parthenon first night is not greater than that which, in Bloomsbury and Camden Town, accrues to those who have occupied places--not necessarily seats--in the other parts of the house. It is understood, too, that the good will of Bloomsbury and Camden Town is much more valuable to a play than the best wishes of Mayfair and Belgravia.

The gracious manager had made his customary speech of thanks,--for everything produced at the Parthenon was a success,--and while the general audience were moving away very reluctantly, some distinguished men and women followed the guidance of a strong Irish brogue as a flock follows a bell-wether, through a door that led to the stage. Here the great actor and the ever-charming lady who divided with him the affections of West as well as East, received their guests'

congratulations in such a way as made the guests feel that the success was wholly due to their good will.

Mrs. Linton, who was a personage in society,--her husband had found a gold mine (with the a.s.sistance of Herbert Courtland) and she had herself written a book of travels which did not sell,--had brought Phyllis with her party to the theater, and they had gone on the stage with the other notabilities, at the conclusion of the performance. George Holland, having become as great a celebrity as the best of them during that previous fortnight, had naturally received a stall and an invitation to the stage at the conclusion of the performance. He had not been of Mrs.

Linton's party, but he lay in wait for that party as they emerged from their box.

Another man also lay in wait for them, and people--outsiders--nudged one another in the theater as the pa.s.sers down Piccadilly had nudged one another, whispering his name, Herbert Courtland. Others--they were not quite such outsiders--nudged one another when Mrs. Linton laid down her new feather fan on the ledge of the box. It was possibly the loveliest thing that existed in the world at that moment. No artist had ever dreamed of so wonderful a scheme of color--such miracles of color--combinations in every feather from the quill to the spider-web-like fluffs at the tips, each of which shone not like gold but like gla.s.s. It was well worth all the nudging that it called forth.

But when Mrs. Linton had picked it up from the ledge, beginning to oscillate it in front of her fair face, the nudging ceased. People looked at the thing with eyes wide with astonishment, but with lips mute.

A more satisfactory evening she had never spent, Mrs. Linton felt; and now the fan was hanging down among the brocaded flowers of her dress, making them look tawdry as she left the box, and noticed how at least two men were lying in wait for her party. There was, however, a frankness in Herbert Courtland's strategy which George Holland's did not possess. Mr. Courtland was looking directly at her; Mr. Holland was pretending to be engrossed in conversation with a man in one of the end stalls.

She lifted a finger and Courtland went to her side. The difficulties of the jungle along the banks of the Fly River were trifling compared with the obstacles he had to overcome in obeying her.

"I had no idea that you would be here," she said.

"Where else should I be?" he said, in so low a tone as to be heard only by her.

"We are so glad," said Mrs. Linton. "I want to present you to my dearest friend, Phyllis Ayrton."

"A woman!" said he.

"Not yet. She has never met a man. She will to-night," said Ella. Then she turned to Phyllis, who was walking beside Lord Earlscourt. "Come here, Phyllis," she said; "you are the only person in London who doesn't yet know Mr. Herbert Courtland. This is Mr. Courtland."

Thus it was that Phyllis went upon the stage of the Parthenon by the side of Herbert Courtland instead of by the side of George Holland; and the little laugh that Mrs. Linton gave was due to her careful observation of the latter's face when he perceived, as he did in spite of the engrossing nature of his conversation with his friend in the end stall, how his designs had been defeated by her tactics. She would not have minded having Herbert Courtland with her for the hour they might remain at the theater, but she had made up her mind that it was not to Phyllis' advantage that Mr. Holland should continue by her side in public after she had given him his dismissal.

She also perceived, with even greater gratification, that Herbert Courtland was looking nearly as dissatisfied with the result of her tactics as George Holland. If he had looked pleased at being by the side of Phyllis when he expected to be with her--Ella--what would life be worth to her?

But if he was dissatisfied at being with Phyllis instead of Mrs. Linton, he did not consider that any reason for neglecting the former. He wondered if she had any choice in sandwiches--of course she had in champagne. His curiosity was satisfied, and Phyllis was amply provided for.

"You are Mrs. Linton's dearest friend," he remarked casually, as they leaned up against the profile of the Church scene in "Cagliostro," for they were standing in the "wings"--to be exact--on the O. P. side.

"She is my dearest friend, at any rate," said Phyllis.

"You were not at school together. She is four or five years older than you."

"Only three. When she got married she seemed to me to be almost venerable. Three years seemed a long time then."

"But now you fancy that you have formed a right idea of what is meant by three years?"

"Well, a better idea, at any rate."

"You are still a good way off it. But if you have formed a right estimate of a woman's friendship----"

"That's still something, you mean to say? But why did you stop short, Mr. Courtland?"

Phyllis was looking up to his face with a smile of inquiry.

"I was afraid that you might think I was on the way to preach a sermon on the text of woman's friendship. I pulled myself up just in time. I'm glad that I didn't frighten you."

"Oh, no; you didn't frighten me, Mr. Courtland. I was only wondering how you would go on--whether you would treat the topic sentimentally or cynically."

"And what conclusion did you come to on the subject?"

"I know that you are a brave man--perhaps the bravest man alive. You would, I think, have treated the question seriously--feelingly."

He laughed.

"The adoption of that course implies courage certainly. All the men of sentimentality--which is something quite different from sentiment, mind you--have taken to writing melodrama and penny novelettes. You didn't hear much sentimentality on this stage to-night, or any other night, for that matter."

"No; it would have sounded unreal. A Parthenon audience would resent what they believed to be a false note in art; and a Parthenon audience is supposed to be the concentration of the spirit of the period in thought and art; isn't it?"

"I don't know. I'm half a savage. But I like to think the best of a Parthenon audience; you and I formed part of that concentration to-night--yes, I like to think the best of it. I suppose we know--we, the Parthenon audience, I mean--what our feelings are on the art of acting--the art of play-writing."