I myself thought a dictionary and a few grammars a sensible beginning, as Mrs. Dingley was a veritable Mrs. Malaprop. Later I committed a _faux pas_, though I meant no offense. In my effort to say something nice to my hostess I remarked that I had seen her years ago during the early days of her struggle and that I had been one of her ardent admirers. The way she said, "Yes?" with the frosty inflection made me understand she did not care to remember her beginnings. While we were drinking tea out of priceless cups--the history of which was being retailed by our host--there was a commotion and a craning of necks toward the stairs. The hostess hurried forward to greet the late arrival. There was considerable nudging and innuendo exchanged as a small pleasant-faced man with a Van Dyke beard entered the room. Our host greeted him jovially, almost boisterously. "Here comes the king--here comes the king!" hummed the two actresses, winking significantly at me. There was a buzz of voices while Mrs. Dingley paraded the lion of the occasion about the room with an air of playful proprietorship. The little man had a penchant for pretty girls and flattery. He got both. Everybody fawned on him, Mr. Dingley laboured heroically to be witty. My curiosity finally drove me to ask my neighbours who the little man was. "Is he a manager, or a producer, or?--?" I whispered. There was a peal of laughter before I was answered. "O, he's a producer, all right! Why, don't you know who he is? He's the goose that laid the golden egg!" taking in the gold furniture with a comprehensive sweep of her hand. She lowered her voice and leaned toward me. "He's Mr. ----!" I recognized the name of the multi-millionaire. "Is he?" I queried, trying to get another look at him. The women relapsed into their confidences. "How do you suppose she explains it to ----?" calling Mr. Dingley by his first name. The other woman shrugged her shoulders. "She doesn't have to explain; money talks." On the way home I asked Will what they meant. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "They do say that the little man is an 'angel.'" "Well, suppose he is?" I began indignantly. "There is such a thing as clean-minded men of the world: patrons of art without ulterior motives. All art needs fostering, and who better able to help the climbers than ----?" Will laid his hand on mine, a little way he had when he wanted to reassure me. "I haven't a doubt in the world that there are clean-minded men of means without 'ulterior motives,' as you express it. I also believe that hen's teeth are rare." * * * * *