class="smcap">Cayley Drummle enters briskly. He is a neat little man of about five-and-forty, in manner bright, airy, debonair, but with an undercurrent of seriousness.

[Morse retires.

Drummle.

I'm in disgrace; nobody realises that more thoroughly than I do. Where's my host?

Aubrey.

[Who has risen.] Cayley.

Drummle.

[Shaking hands with him.] Don't speak to me till I have tendered my explanation. A harsh word from anybody would unman me.

[Misquith and Jayne shake hands with Drummle.

Aubrey.

Have you dined?

Drummle.

No—unless you call a bit of fish, a cutlet, and a pancake dining.

Aubrey.

Cayley, this is disgraceful.

Jayne.

Fish, a cutlet, and a pancake will require a great deal of explanation.

Misquith.

Especially the pancake. My dear friend, your case looks miserably weak.

Drummle.

Hear me! hear me!

Jayne.

Now then!

Misquith.

Come!

Aubrey.

Well!

Drummle.

It so happens that to-night I was exceptionally early in dressing for dinner.

Misquith.

For which dinner—the fish and cutlet?

Drummle.

For this dinner, of course—really, Frank! At a quarter to eight, in fact, I found myself trimming my nails, with ten minutes to spare. Just then enter my man with a note—would I hasten, as fast as cab could carry me, to old Lady Orreyed in Bruton Street?—"sad trouble." Now, recollect, please, I had ten minutes on my hands, old Lady Orreyed was a very dear friend of my mother's, and was in some distress.

Aubrey.

Cayley, come to the fish and cutlet?

Misquith and Jayne.

Yes, yes, and the pancake!

Drummle.

Upon my word! Well, the scene in Bruton Street beggars description; the women servants looked scared, the men drunk; and there was poor old Lady Orreyed on the floor of her boudoir like Queen Bess among her pillows.

Aubrey.

What's the matter?

Drummle.

[To everybody.] You know George Orreyed?

Misquith.

Yes.

Jayne.

I've met him.

Drummle.

Well, he's a thing of the past.

Aubrey.

Not dead!

Drummle.

Certainly, in the worst sense. He's married Mabel Hervey.

Misquith.

What!

Drummle.

It's true—this morning. The poor mother showed me his letter—a dozen curt words, and some of those ill-spelt.

Misquith.

[Walking up to the fireplace.] I'm very sorry.

Jayne.

Pardon my ignorance—who was Mabel Hervey?

Drummle.

You don't——? Oh, of course not. Miss Hervey—Lady Orreyed, as she now is—was a lady who would have been, perhaps has been, described in the reports of the Police or the Divorce Court as an actress. Had she belonged to a lower stratum of our advanced civilisation she would, in the event of judicial inquiry, have defined her calling with equal justification as that of a dressmaker. To do her justice, she is a type of a class which is immortal. Physically, by the strange caprice of creation, curiously beautiful; mentally, she lacks even the strength of deliberate viciousness. Paint her portrait, it would symbolise a creature perfectly patrician; lance a vein of her superbly-modelled arm, you would get the poorest vin ordinaire! Her affections, emotions, impulses, her very existence—a burlesque! Flaxen, five-and-twenty, and feebly frolicsome; anybody's, in less gentle society I should say everybody's, property! That, doctor, was Miss Hervey who is the new Lady Orreyed. Dost thou like the picture?

Misquith.

Very good, Cayley! Bravo!

Aubrey.

[Laying his hand on Drummle's shoulder.] You'd scarcely believe it, Jayne, but none of us really know anything about this lady, our gay young friend here, I suspect, least of all.

Drummle.

Aubrey, I applaud your chivalry.

Aubrey.

And perhaps you'll let me finish a couple of letters which Frank and Jayne have given me leave to write. [Returning to the writing-table.] Ring for what you want, like a good fellow!

[Aubrey resumes his writing.

Misquith.

[To Drummle.] Still, the fish and cutlet remain unexplained.

Drummle.

Oh, the poor old woman was so weak that I insisted upon her taking some food, and felt there was nothing for it but to sit down opposite her. The fool! the blackguard!

Misquith.

Poor Orreyed! Well, he's gone under for a time.

Drummle.

For a time! My dear Frank, I tell you he has absolutely ceased to be. [Aubrey, who has been writing busily, turns his head towards the speakers and listens. His lips are set, and there is a frown upon his face.] For all practical purposes you may regard him as the late George Orreyed. To-morrow the very characteristics of his speech, as we remember them, will have become obsolete.

Jayne.

But surely, in the course of years, he and his wife will outlive——

Drummle.

No, no, doctor, don't try to upset one of my settled beliefs. You may dive into many waters, but there is one social Dead Sea——!

Jayne.

Perhaps you're right.

Drummle.

Right! Good God! I wish you could prove me otherwise! Why, for years I've been sitting, and watching and waiting.

Misquith.

You're in form to-night, Cayley. May we ask where you've been in the habit of squandering your