“My dear Montagu, I’m delighted,” said Mr. Chown. “You will honor me by dining with me? They have a Chablis here that really is not unworthy of your acceptance.” It was flattering to be thought a connoisseur of wine, and Chown had skillfully mentioned a wine that couldn’t go beyond Montagu’s _savoir vivre_, instead of the more esoteric drinks of his own preferring. Yet Mr. Chown, taking trouble to secure a guest, wanted nothing of Montagu but his company. The theater is at once convivial and self-insulating. Chown hated solitude, and though there were hail-fellow-well-met commercial travelers in the hotel whose conversation would have been a tonic, he preferred the limited Mr. Montagu. Erroneously, Mr. Chown despised commercial travelers. Mr. Montagu, in gratitude, decided to give Mr. Chown a hint. Mr. Chown was in evening dress. “I am glad to hear,” said Mr. Chown, who had heard nothing at all, “that you are having excellent houses.” The houses were no better than Montagu’s inexpensive company deserved. “I am not,” he confessed, “doing musical comedy business. Still, they have a feeling for the legitimate here. Staithley’s a good town, if,” he added, trying to give his kindly hint, “it isn’t dressy.” “No. I suppose one mustn’t judge these people by their clothes. They don’t put their money on their backs in the North. They’ve more left to spend on the theater, Montagu.” “And the music-hall.” “Ah! You feel the competition?” “I wasn’t meaning that. Look here, Chown, are you coming in to see my show to-night?” “Well--” Mr. Chown’s whole anatomy, as seen above the table, was apology incarnate. “No. You’re not. I didn’t think it and that’s why I didn’t ask at once. It’s some one at the Palace you’ve come to see, isn’t it?” “What makes you think so?” “Well, there’s nothing else in Staithley.” The theater _is_ self-insulating. “And you haven’t come here for your health. But, if you’ll excuse my saying it, they don’t dress for the theater, let alone the Palace, and if you go there as you are, they’ll throw things at you from the gallery.” “Montagu, I shan’t forget this kindness,” said Chown. “You put me under obligation to you. But--did you never hear of an Eisteddfod?” “Is it a new act on the halls?” asked Mr. Montagu, who did not rapidly clear his mind of an obsession. Mr. Chown smiled. “Not yet,” he said, but “out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” he thought, mentally filing an idea for future reference. “Wait a moment,” said Mr. Montagu. “Why am I thinking of Lloyd George?” “Because of a natural association of ideas. Staithley Eisteddfod, however, is a Lancashire occasion with a Welsh label that hasn’t much to do with it. You may recall the Hand Bell Ringers who were on the halls some years ago. I picked them up at Staithley Eisteddfod. It’s a sort of competitive festival of song, and if I were not dressed, I should not be admitted to the stalls.”