“Mr. Harter, have another drink,” said I, with all the distinctness of utterance at my command. I saw--and no doubt Harter did, too--that Leeds jumped at the sound of his name. Then he looked at Mrs. Leeds, then again, hard, at Harter, and finally at me, with comically raised eyebrows. Harter remained entirely impervious. “Let me see, you and I met once in Cairo, I believe,” said Mr. Leeds, “when our yacht was at Alexandria.” “Yes,” said the little man, with a sort of neutral civility. “I believe that was so.” “And your wife--” “Oh, yes.” There was a pause. I had an unreasonable, and quite unfounded, premonition that the next thing would be the cocktail story. It was a relief when Lady Annabel and the Rector arrived, and then the Kendals and other people. The atmosphere was somehow jerky, almost apprehensive. No conversation seemed to have any continuity, and no movement any very definite purpose. The third, and greatest, relief of the evening was when we all adjourned to our places in front of the stage and waited for the curtain to go up. There were a good many people present. Some of the men, among them Harter, stood up at the end of the room. Mrs. Harter’s song went very well. There was an instant in which I thought, with surprise, that she was nervous. Her eyes searched the audience intently for a moment, seeking to identify someone or something in the fashion that so unmistakably differentiates the amateur from the professional. Lady Annabel, beside me, said not a word, but I saw her eyebrows go up. However, it wasn’t Bill Patch that Mrs. Harter was looking for--he was behind the scenes, and of course she must have known that. In less than a minute I saw by her face that she had discovered what she wanted, and she began her song and sang it very well. I had curiosity enough to turn around and follow the direction that her glance had taken, and I saw that it must have been her husband, whose situation she had wanted to ascertain. His little, sallow face was inexpressive, and I suddenly saw some justification for Martyn’s adjective--reptilian. There was something oddly and inexplicably baleful about the singularly unattractive Mr. Harter as he leaned against the wall and watched his wife on the stage. After her song was over and had been vigorously applauded she went off the stage and I did not see her again during the play, but Dolly Kendal, who had a seat at the far end of a row, assured me afterward that Mrs. Harter sat in the wings, and that Bill Patch came and stood beside her in every interval when he was not on the stage. There are always observant people to note these things and to retail them in conversation. Of course the play was a great success. Amateur theatricals always are a great success. Sallie’s performance was quite brilliant and the others were good enough.