"How awkward!" said Edward Henry. "I meant to ask you to lay the stone on the very next afternoon--Wednesday, that is!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes, Sir John. The ceremony will be a very original affair--very original!"

"A foundation-stone-laying!" mused Sir John. "But if you're already up to the first floor, how can you be laying the foundation-stone on Wednesday week?"

"I didn't say foundation-stone. I said corner-stone," Edward Henry corrected him. "An entire novelty! That's why we can't be ready before Wednesday week."

"And you want to advertise your house by getting the head of the profession to a.s.sist?"

"That is exactly my idea."

"Well," said Sir John. "Whatever else you may lack, Mr. Alderman, you are not lacking in nerve, if you expect to succeed in _that_."

Edward Henry smiled.

"I have already heard, in a round-about way," he replied, "that Sir Gerald Pompey would not be unwilling to officiate. My only difficulty is that I'm a truthful man by nature. Whoever officiates, I shall of course have to have him labelled, in my own interests, as the head of the theatrical profession, and I don't want to say anything that isn't true."

There was a pause.

"Now, Sir John, couldn't you stay a day or two longer in London and join the ship at Ma.r.s.eilles instead of going on board at Tilbury?"

"But I have made all my arrangements. The whole world knows that I am going on board at Tilbury."

Just then the door opened and a servant announced:

"Mr. Carlo Trent."

Sir John Pilgrim rushed like a locomotive to the threshold and seized both Carlo Trent's hands with such a violence of welcome that Carlo Trent's eyegla.s.s fell out of his eye and the purple ribbon dangled to his waist.

"Come in, come in!" said Sir John. "And begin to read at once. I've been looking out of the window for you for the last quarter of an hour.

Alderman, this is Mr. Carlo Trent, the well-known dramatic poet. Trent, this is one of the greatest geniuses in London.... Ah! You know each other? It's not surprising! No, don't stop to shake hands. Sit down here, Trent. Sit down on this chair.... Here, Snip, take his hat.

Worry it! Worry it! Now, Trent, don't read to _me_. It might make you nervous and hurried. Read to Miss Taft and Chung, and to Mr. Givington over there. Imagine that they are the great and enlightened public.

You have imagination, haven't you, being a poet?"

Sir John had accomplished the change of mood with the rapidity of a transformation-scene--in which form of art, by the way, he was a great adept.

Carlo Trent, somewhat breathless, took a ma.n.u.script from his pocket, opened it, and announced: "The Orient Pearl."

"Oh!" breathed Edward Henry.

For some thirty minutes Edward Henry listened to hexameters, the first he had ever heard. The effect of them on his moral organism was worse even than he had expected. He glanced about at the other auditors.

Givington had opened a box of tubes and was spreading colours on his palette. The Chinaman's eyes were closed while his face still grinned.

Snip was asleep on the parquet. Miss Taft bit the end of a pencil with her agreeable teeth. Sir John Pilgrim lay at full length on a sofa, occasionally lifting his legs. Edward Henry despaired of help in his great need. But just as his desperation was becoming too acute to be borne, Carlo Trent e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the word "Curtain." It was the first word that Edward Henry had clearly understood.

"That's the first act," said Carlo Trent, wiping his face. Snip awakened.

Edward Henry rose and, in the hush, tiptoed round the sofa.

"Good-bye, Sir John," he whispered.

"You're not going?"

"I am, Sir John."

The head of his profession sat up. "How right you are!" said he. "How right you are. Trent, I knew from the first words it wouldn't do. It lacks colour. I want something more crimson, more like the brighter parts of this jacket, something--" He waved hands in the air. "The alderman agrees with me. He's going. Don't trouble to read any more, Trent. But drop in any time--any time. Chung, what o'clock is it?"

"It is nearly noon," said Edward Henry in the tone of an old friend.

"Well, I'm sorry you can't oblige me, Sir John. I'm off to see Sir Gerald Pompey now."

"But who says I can't oblige you?" protested Sir John. "Who knows what sacrifices I would not make in the highest interests of the profession?

Alderman, you jump to conclusions with the agility of an acrobat, but they are false conclusions! Miss Taft, the telephone! Chung, my coat!

Good-bye, Trent, good-bye!"

An hour later Edward Henry met Mr. Marrier at the Grand Babylon Hotel.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Marrier, "you are the greatest man that ever lived!"

"Why?"

Mr. Marrier showed him the stop-press news of a penny evening paper, which read: "Sir John Pilgrim has abandoned his ceremonious departure from Tilbury in order to lay the corner-stone of the new Regent Theatre on Wednesday week. He and Miss Cora Pryde will join the _Kandahar_ at Ma.r.s.eilles."

"You needn't do any advertaysing," said Mr. Marrier. "Pilgrim will do all the advertaysing for you."

III.

Edward Henry and Mr. Marrier worked together admirably that afternoon on the arrangements for the corner-stone-laying. And--such was the interaction of their separate enthusiasms--it soon became apparent that all London (in the only right sense of the word "all") must and would be at the ceremony. Characteristically, Mr. Marrier happened to have a list or catalogue of all London in his pocket, and Edward Henry appreciated him more than ever. But towards four o'clock Mr. Marrier annoyed and even somewhat alarmed Edward Henry by a mysterious change of mien. His a.s.sured optimism slipped away from him. He grew uneasy, darkly preoccupied, and inefficient. At last when the clock in the room struck four, and Edward Henry failed to hear it, Mr. Marrier said:

"I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse me now."

"Why?"

"I told you I had an appointment for tea at four."

"Did you? What is it?" Edward Henry demanded with an employer's instinctive a.s.sumption that souls as well as brains can be bought for such sums as three pounds a week.

"I have a lady coming to tea, here; that is, downstairs."

"In this hotel?"

"Yes."

"Who is it?" Edward Henry pursued lightly, for though he appreciated Mr.

Marrier, he also despised him. However, he found the grace to add: "May one ask?"