"Another of the lads, like yourself. I thought perhaps you might have been workin’ with him at some time. I came acrost him once or twice. He was a pretty tough nut. His line was to dress up as a curate and get himself adopted by rich widders; but he was n’t the artist you are, sir. He ’ad n’t your education, I should say. Are the whole family in this, may I enquire?" "Er--yes," replied Mr. Welwyn helplessly. "Ah!" Mr. Stillbottle nodded his head. "I thought somehow that I had come on a happy visit to the Nut Family as soon as I got acquainted with your two youngest. Well, it’s a pleasure to work with people at the top of their profession, and I’ll see you through." Mr. Welwyn thanked him, almost inaudibly. "But when do you suppose," pursued Mr. Stillbottle, transferring his feet from the sofa to the floor, "that I shall get out of this Dramatic Academy of yours? I ’ave n’t come ’ere for a _course_, you know. Are you going to touch the tea-party for the money, or let me distrain on the furniture, or what?" "I can’t tell you at present," said Mr. Welwyn; "but I will endeavour to arrange something by the evening." "Well, let me know soon, ole sport," said Mr. Stillbottle--"that’s all. I ’ave my arrangements to make, too, remember. My _word_, look at Mother!" This interjection was occasioned by the entrance of Mrs. Welwyn and Amelia, dressed for the party. Mrs. Welwyn was arrayed in a quieter and more tasteful fashion than might have been expected. Her costume, which had been designed and constructed by her eldest daughter, would have struck an impartial critic as one which made the very best of her age and figure. Amelia wore a short white frock, with a blue sash. Her long coppery hair flowed to her waist, and her hazel eyes were aglow with excitement. "Father dear, what do you think of the way Tilly has turned me out?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn gaily. For the moment her troubles were behind her. For once she was suitably--and to the outward eye expensively--attired; and the knowledge of the fact had induced in her humble but feminine soul that degree of minor intoxication which the materially-minded male usually achieves, more grossly but less extravagantly, by means of a pint of champagne. Slowly gyrating for the delectation of her husband, Mrs. Welwyn unexpectedly encountered the unsympathetic gaze of Mr. Stillbottle. She blushed red, and ceased to revolve. "Oh, that you?" she exclaimed, in an embarrassed voice. "Yes, it’s me--what’s left of me," replied Mr. Stillbottle lugubriously. "Wearing me out, this job is." He displayed his paper of cues. Mrs. Welwyn regarded him severely. "It’s time you dressed yourself," she said. "I have put my son’s evening clothes out for you--in the bathroom," she added pointedly. "You had better go and put them on. He is bigger than you, but you’ll manage." Mr. Stillbottle acquiesced.