Here, too, was Milligan, of the law firm in which Macgowan was silently interested; and Harry Lorenz, a cynically genial bachelor who cherished a fancied resemblance to John Drew; and finally Mrs. Fowler's accompanist, one Percival Hemingway. This last was a smoothly sweet person who spoke in lisping accents mild and was a delicately cultured soul. His affiliations with a musical journal made him quite useful at times. Over this gathering Macgowan reigned supreme, for various and sundry reasons. He was deferred to and lionized, and enjoyed himself mightily--enjoyed the half-frightened toadying of Findlater, enjoyed above all the art of his hostess. For Mrs. Fowler could sing, and Macgowan, possessing a real discrimination, laid at her feet a tribute of appreciation which was sincere. When she rose and asked for suggestions, it was at Macgowan that she glanced. "Don't let Percival trot out any of his favorite problem pieces," he responded. "Save 'em for the concerts, Percy--sweet angel! Let's have something with music in it, and none of this French and Swedish stuff. The older the better, I say." Harry Lorenz spoke up, his mustache lifting in a thin and ironic smile. "Quite so, quite so!" he approved smoothly. "There's one thing, Mrs. Fowler, which I should like to hear you sing. I believe it would be distinctly appropriate, and is quite in line with Mac's suggestion. My request number is--'He Shall Feed His Flock.'" At this, Milligan broke into a roar of laughter, while Findlater discreetly smothered his smile. Macgowan, relishing the cynicism of his friend, tendered Mrs. Fowler a smiling nod of assent. "By all means! It's one of the few perfect things; the simplest is always the best in music, despite the critics. Percival, don't look so pained! It won't hurt you to get back to the farm for once and see where real music came from. Have you the number? And look up some Cherubini while you're about it." Hemingway began to rustle through the cabinet. Macgowan turned to the others, with his amused chuckle. "Harry, there's more truth than poetry in your palpable hit! I've a grand idea for Consolidated to take hold of, if our esteemed president in the corner yonder doesn't sit on the notion. How about an Academy of Musical Art, eh? Plenty of money in the idea--at least, in the stock end of it. Something new in the stock line, too." Findlater started slightly. "Come, Lawrence! You're not serious?" "Dead serious." Macgowan eyed his uneasy victim and chuckled again. "Put Mrs. Fowler at the head of it. Get some of these vaudeville hicks from the Village, plaster 'em with Russian names and titles, call it the Imperial Russian Academy. How's that? Can't you see the provinces falling for that stuff, Harry?"