He took another drink from the glass in his hand and looked about him; there was a curious feeling in his brain that he himself was not there, that he had gone away, or been left behind somewhere in the world’s mad rush, and that he was something else, watching a semblance of himself and the semblance’s surroundings. The scene interested and amused whatever it was that was looking on from his brain. Harcourt, free of his Greek draperies, now appeared in a shirt and trousers; he stood before the mirror on his dressing-table, brushing his hair--Lucian wondered where he bought his braces, which, looked at closely, revealed a peculiarly dainty pattern worked by hand. All the time that he was manipulating the brushes he was talking in disconnected sentences. Lucian caught some of them: ‘Little cutting here and there--that bit dragged--I’m told that _was_ a fine effect--very favourable indeed--we shall see, we shall see!’--and he wondered what Harcourt was talking about. Near the actor-manager, in an easy-chair, sat an old gentleman of benevolent aspect, white-bearded, white-moustached, who wore a fur-lined cloak over his evening-dress. He was sucking at a cigar, and his hand, very fat and very white, held a glass at which he kept looking from time to time as if he were not quite certain what to do with it. He was reported to be at the back of Harcourt in financial matters, and he blinked and nodded at every sentence rapidly spoken by the actor-manager, but said nothing. Near him stood two men in cloaks and opera-hats, also holding glasses in their hands and smoking cigarettes--one of them Lucian recognised as a great critic, the other as a famous actor. At his own side, talking very rapidly, was the sixth man, Harcourt’s business-manager. Lucian suddenly realised that he was nodding his head at this man as if in intelligent comprehension of what he was saying, whereas he had not understood one word. He shook himself together as a man does who throws drowsiness aside. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I--I don’t think I was paying attention. I don’t know why, but I feel half-asleep.’ ‘It’s the reaction,’ said Harcourt, hastily getting into his waistcoat and coat. ‘I feel tired out--if I had my way there should be no such thing as a first night--it’s a most wearing occasion.’ The famous critic turned with a smile. ‘Think of being able to lie in bed to-morrow with a sheaf of newspapers on your counterpane!’ he said pleasantly. Then somehow, chatting disjointedly, they got out of the theatre. Harcourt and Lucian drove off in a hansom together--they were near neighbours. ‘What do you think?’ asked Lucian, as they drove away.