When he came up breathless and spluttering, Mrs. Ashton Portway (in black and silver) was introducing him to her husband, Mr. Ashton Portway, known to a small circle of readers as Raymond Quick, the author of several mild novels issued at his own expense. Mr. Portway was rich in money and in his wife; he had inherited the money, and his literary instincts had discovered the wife in a publisher's daughter. The union had not been blessed with children, which was fortunate, since Mrs. Portway was left free to devote the whole of her time to the encouragement of literary talent in the most unliterary of cities. Henry rather liked Mr. Ashton Portway, whose small black eyes seemed to say: 'That's all right, my friend. I share your ideas fully. When you want a quiet whisky, come to me.' 'And what have you been doing this dark day?' Mrs. Ashton Portway began, with her snigger. 'Well,' said Henry, 'I dropped into the National Gallery this afternoon, but really it was so----' 'The National Gallery?' exclaimed Mrs. Ashton Portway swiftly. 'I must introduce you to Miss Marchrose, the author of that charming hand-book to _Pictures in London_. Miss Marchrose,' she called out, urging Henry towards a corner of the room, 'this is Mr. Knight.' She sniggered on the name. 'He's just dropped into the National Gallery.' Then Mrs. Ashton Portway sailed off to receive other guests, and Henry was alone with Miss Marchrose in a nook between a cabinet and a phonograph. Many eyes were upon them. Miss Marchrose, a woman of thirty, with a thin face and an amorphous body draped in two shades of olive, was obviously flattered. 'Be frank, and admit you've never heard of me,' she said. 'Oh yes, I have,' he lied. 'Do you often go to the National Gallery, Mr. Knight?' 'Not as often as I ought.' Pause. Several observant women began to think that Miss Marchrose was not making the best of Henry--that, indeed, she had proved unworthy of an unmerited honour. 'I sometimes think----' Miss Marchrose essayed. But a young lady got up in the middle of the room, and with extraordinary self-command and presence of mind began to recite Wordsworth's 'The Brothers.' She continued to recite and recite until she had finished it, and then sat down amid universal joy. 'Matthew Arnold said that was the greatest poem of the century,' remarked a man near the phonograph. 'You'll pardon me,' said Miss Marchrose, turning to him. 'If you are thinking of Matthew Arnold's introduction to the selected poems, you'll and----' 'My dear,' said Mrs. Ashton Portway, suddenly looming up opposite the reciter, 'what a memory you have!' 'Was it so long, then?' murmured a tall man with spectacles and a light wavy beard. 'I shall send you back to Paris, Mr. Dolbiac,' said Mrs. Ashton Portway, 'if you are too witty.' The hostess smiled and sniggered, but it was generally felt that Mr. Dolbiac's remark had not been in the best taste.