John's first impulse, as always when his cousin paid him a visit, was to tell him to get out. People who, when they saw Hugo, immediately told him to get out generally had the comfortable feeling that they were doing the right and sensible thing. But to-night there was in his demeanour something so crushed and forlorn that John had not the heart to pursue this admirable policy. "Hullo," he said. "I thought you were down at the concert." Hugo uttered a short, bitter laugh, and, sinking into a chair, stared bleakly before him. His eyelids, like those of the Mona Lisa, were a little weary. He looked like the hero of a Russian novel debating the advisability of murdering a few near relations before hanging himself in the barn. "I was," he said. "Oh yes, I was down at the concert all right." "Have you done your bit already?" "I have. They put Ronnie and me on just after the Vicar's Short Address." "Wanted to get the worst over quick, eh?" Hugo raised a protesting hand. There was infinite sadness in the gesture. "Don't mock, John. Don't jeer. Don't jibe and scoff. I'm a broken man." "Only cracked, I should have said." Hugo was not attuned to cousinly badinage. He frowned austerely. "Less back-chat," he begged. "I came here for sympathy. And a drink. Have you got anything to drink?" "There's some whisky in that cupboard." Hugo heaved himself from the chair, looking more Russian than ever. John watched his operations with some concern. "Aren't you mixing it pretty strong?" "I need it strong." The unhappy man emptied his glass, refilled it, and returned to the chair. "In fact, it's a point verging very much on the moot whether I ought to have put any water in it at all." "What's the trouble?" "This isn't bad whisky," said Hugo, becoming a little brighter. "I know it isn't. What's the matter?" The momentary flicker of cheerfulness died out. Gloom once more claimed Hugo for its own. "John, old man," he said. "We got the bird." "Yes?" "Don't say 'Yes?' like that, as if you had expected it," said Hugo, hurt. "The thing came on me as a stunning blow. I was amazed. Astounded. Absolutely nonplussed." "Could I have knocked you down with a feather?" "I thought we were going to be a riot. Of course, mind you, we came on much too early. It was criminal to bill us next to opening. An audience needs careful warming up for an intellectual act like ours!" "What happened?" Hugo rose and renewed the contents of his glass. "There is a spirit creeping into the life of Rudge-in-the-Vale," he said, "which I don't like to see. A spirit of lawlessness and licence. Disruptive influences are at work. Bolshevik propaganda, I shouldn't wonder. Would a Rudge audience have given me the bird a few years ago? Not a chance!" "But you've never tried them with the Quarrel Scene from _Julius Cæsar_ before. Everybody has a breaking point." The argument was specious, but Hugo shook his head.