ended in shocking bathos so suddenly as to create surprise rather than derision. He believed in it all and made everybody else believe. Matilda gave a sigh as the curtains were drawn and Mr. Copas appeared, bowing and bowing again, using his domination over his audience to squeeze more and more applause out of them. "Ain't it lovely?" said Matilda. "It is certainly remarkable," replied Mr. Mole. "You'd never think he had a floating kidney, would you?" "I would not." "It's that makes him a little quick in his temper." From the audience arose a smell of oranges, beer and peppermint, and there were much talk and laughter, giggling and round resounding kissing. No change of scene was considered necessary for the song and dance of Mr. Fitter, who turned out to be the lugubrious young man. He had no humor, but he worked very hard and created some amusement. Mr. Copas did not appear in the farce, which was deplorable and made Mr. Mole feel depressed and ashamed, so that for a moment his old point of view reasserted itself and he felt aghast at the undertaking upon which he was embarked. A moment or two before he had been telling himself that this was "life"--the talk and the laughter and the kissing; now he felt only disgust at its coarseness and commonness. He was dejected and miserable, stripped even of the intellectual interest roused by Mr. Copas. The loutish buffoons on the stage with their brutal humors filled him with resentment at their degradation. Only his obstinacy saved him from yielding to the impulse to escape. . . . Matilda had grown tired of standing and had taken his arm. She laughed at nearly all the jokes. Her laughter was shrill and immoderate. He called himself fool, but he stayed. He was warmly welcomed by Mr. Copas after the performance. His congratulations and praise were accepted with proper modesty. "Acting," said Mr. Copas, "is a nart. There's some as thinks it's a trick, like performing dogs, but it's a nart. What did you think of Mrs. Copas?" The question was embarrassing. Fortunately no answer was expected. "I've taught her everything she knows. She's not very good at queens, but her mad scenes can't be beat, can't be beat. My line's tragedy by nature, but a nartist has to be everything. . . . What's your line, Mr. Mole?" "I don't know that I have a line." Mr. Copas rubbed his chin. "Of course. You _look_ like a comic, but we'll see, we'll see. You couldn't write plays, I suppose? Not that there's much writing to be done when you give three plays a night, and a different program every night. Just the plot's all we want. Are you good at plots?" "I've read a good deal." "Ah! I was never a reader myself. . . . Of course, I can't pay you anything until I know whether you're useful or not." "I've plenty of money, thanks." Mr. Copas eyed his guest shrewdly. "Of course," he said, "of course, if you were really keen I could take you in as a sort of partner." "I don't know that I----" "Ten pounds would do it."