Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the walls from floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. She gives a little touch to her gown. And now is sitting in a lounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respects the very picture of unconsciousness. It is--it must be---- It isn't, however. Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion that generally plays old Harry with the hinges and blows the ornaments off the nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and the liveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth, are of goodly proportions. "Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He has been reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously for the past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphatic nuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary, proving as a rule a bore. "That will do, Dicky! We _all_ know about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing. "Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a stage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Though _fleshpot of Egypt_!" He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative. "Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired of _making_ people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed of it." "_Would_ he? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I can say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He _will_ be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced a new edition. But for my part, I believe it _is_ in the book. Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the public mind." "Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about them in the book from start to finish." "No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. "Fleshpots--pots--hot pots; hot _potting_! Hah!" He draws himself together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up,'" says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own." "Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrown away upon the receiver of it.