'But Prospero was Duke of Milan.... I've _been_ to the Mediterranean to see for myself and I know what the colouring is.... I can't believe that Sir Henry has passed this. God knows what kind of lighting it will take.' Charles threw his hat on the ground and stamped on it. 'Dolt! Fool! Idiot!' he shouted. 'Go away and paint it as I tell you to paint it.' 'Damned if I do,' said Smithson. 'My firm has painted all the scenery for this theatre since Sir Henry took it, and we've had our name on the programme, and we've got a reputation to lose. When Shakespeare says an island, he means an island, not the crater of a blooming volcano....' Charles snatched his drawing out of Mr Smithson's hand, and with an expression of extreme agony he said.-- 'Clara, you dragged me into this infernal theatre. Will you please see that I am not driven mad in it? Am I an artist?' 'You may be an artist, Mr Mann,' said Mr Smithson, 'but I'm a practical scene-painter. I was painting scenery before you were born. I was three years old in my father's workshop when I put my first dab of paint on for the Valley of Diamonds for Drury Lane in Gustus Harris's days.' The argument might have gone on indefinitely, but fortunately Sir Henry came down the stairs with Lady Butcher. He was immaculately dressed in frock-coat and top hat, gray Cashmere trousers, and white waistcoat to attend with his wife a fashionable reception. With a low bow, he swept off his very shiny hat, and said to Lady Butcher,-- 'My dear, Mr Charles Mann.' Lady Butcher gave a curt nod. 'My dear, Miss Day....' 'Che-arming!' drawled Lady Butcher, holding out her hand very high in the air. Clara reached up to it and shook it sharply. 'Mr Smithson doesn't like Charles's drawing for the cave scene,' said Clara. 'He can't quite see it, you know, because it is a little different.' 'I won't be a moment, my dear,' said Sir Henry, and Lady Butcher sailed out into the street. 'What's the matter, Smithson?' 'We've never done anything like this before. There's nothing like it in Nature.' 'There is nothing like Caliban in Nature,' said Clara sweetly, and Sir Henry caught at her hint, scowled at Smithson, and growled,-- 'I have passed it. If it needs modification we can settle it at rehearsal. Go ahead. I want to see it before I go away.' 'But there are no measurements, Sir Henry.' 'You know what we can do and what we can't.' 'Very well, Sir Henry.' Mr Smithson clapped on his bowler hat and rushed away. Charles stooped to gather up his battered hat, and Sir Henry seized Clara's arm, squeezed it tight, looked out through the door at his magnificent wife, and heaved an enormous sigh. Clara in her amazing new happiness smiled at him, and he muttered,-- 'You grow in beauty every day. A-ah! Good-day, Mann. The theatre is at your disposal.' He fixed his eyes on Clara for a moment, then wrenched himself away.