His feelings toward Mr. Passmore were not improved when that gentleman and Mr. Levis reoccupied their former chairs, and, warmed by wine, started to discuss their mutual follies. With silent irritation Wynne rose and left the club. He arrived home about nine o’clock, where he inveighed against managers and producers, and the dunces who dance in high places. In the course of the tirade he explained the cause of his anger. “There’s a real thing—and it’s good and right, and cram-jam full of exquisite possibilities. Those idiots haven’t begun to understand it—are blind to its beauty—haven’t a notion how good it is. In God’s name, why don’t they let me produce the thing?” Then Eve had an inspiration which sent Wynne forth into the night, and found him, twenty minutes later, ringing the bell of a house in Clarges Street. Taking into consideration the clothes he wore, and his general look of dilapidation, his attitude when the door was opened by an important footman was praiseworthy and remarkable. He simply said “Thank you,” and stepped into the hall. Then he removed his hat and gave it to the man, saying, “Mr. Wynne Rendall.” The bluff resulted in his being ushered into a drawing-room, in which were a number of ladies and gentlemen. “It is always easy to recognize one’s host in a mixed gathering, provided he does not know you,” commented Wynne, as the door closed, “for he is the person whose face betrays the greatest perplexity. How do you do, Mr. Quiltan?” Lane Quiltan shook hands doubtfully, but not without interest. Out of politeness he said: “I seem to know your name.” “That’s unlikely,” replied Wynne, “for I have been at some pains to keep it in the background. One of these days, however, you will know it very much better.” “Did you come here to tell me so?” “Not altogether, although in a sense it is mixed up with my visit. To be frank, I came in the hope of finding you alone. Still, I suppose later on you will be.” He smiled engagingly. Quiltan scarcely knew whether to be annoyed or amused. In deference to his guests, he chose the latter alternative. “You seem to be an unconventional man, Mr. Rendall,” he laughed. “Come, I had not looked for a compliment so soon; but perhaps you use the term correctively?” “It is just possible, isn’t it?” “And yet my conduct is nothing like so unconventional as the central character in ‘Witches’”—a remark which startled from Lane Quiltan: “What on earth do you know about ‘Witches’?” Wynne smiled agreeably. “I have relations of my own.” “Doubtless, but I _would_ like an answer to my question.” He did not get it, for Wynne only repeated the smile, with a shade more satisfaction. “I fear,” he said, “our conversation is proving very tiresome to your friends. Shall we talk in another room?” “Extraordinary creature!” gasped a very splendid lady seated at the grand piano. “It is what every one will be saying shortly,” returned Wynne, and won a laugh for the readiness of his wit.