This time there were no plaudits. Something approaching a panic reigned throughout the room. The song was deemed a pardonable extravagance, but these grotesque posturings savored of madness. Like everybody else, I was so taken up with Steindal’s antics that I paid no heed to Karl, nor did my flurried thoughts credit him with creating the wave of fear and disgust which now converted popular tolerance into disapprobation. Women shrieked; there was a rush of excited guests and perplexed waiters. Then somebody--probably the gentleman who cried “Bravo” a few minutes before--bawled: “Turn him out! He is either mad or drunk!” Absolutely heedless of the commotion he was causing, Steindal finished his balancing, gave a little skip reminiscent of the ring, smiled blandly, and kissed his finger-tips. Then he squatted on the carpet, and endeavored to do that which was impossible for a man of his build by trying to cross his feet over his shoulders. This was too much. Jules, aided by a couple of waiters, clutched Steindal and pulled him out of the knot. He became very angry, swore outlandishly, fought, kicked, squealed, and was hauled out by main force, while a man gathered up his scattered money. “And now,” said Karl, with an air of placid relief, “now that I have made that self-satisfied little wretch the laughing-stock of London, let us have some dinner.” So that was the explanation of the extraordinary scene! Karl had not forgotten Steindal’s outspoken rage when the hapless Armenian created a similar disturbance in a New York restaurant. He divined that Steindal could only be scarified through his colossal vanity. “The laughing-stock of London!”--that would be a barbed shaft; its wound would never heal. When Steindal regained possession of his senses he would learn the disastrous truth. Even if he escaped prosecution for disorderly conduct, some kind friend would surely tell him how he sang, and balanced, and contorted! He would howl and writhe in impotent fury. There was no legal redress. None would credit him, nor would he dare take that course. He could only accuse Karl of exercising some terrible influence upon him, and, in that event, the laughter would be even more wide-spread, while his overbearing reputation, which stood him in good stead in financial circles, must be lost irrecoverably. The disordered diners were beginning to arrange themselves once more. The band, owing to the conductor’s happy thought, broke into the magnificent trio, “O del Ciel,” for those Italians can play you anything of Gounod’s or Verdi’s right off the reel, and a great many persons smiled broadly as they caught the musical satire. The stock-broker hurried out. “He has gone to look after his friend. It is a kindly act,” I said.