Courtney was in his element. He liked talking about the stage, and stage people. And on this night,--of all nights,--he wanted to talk, he wanted company. The clock on the mantel-piece struck ten and half-past and was close to striking eleven before any one made a move toward retiring,--excepting Mr. and Mrs. Nichols who had gone off to bed at eight-thirty. The Misses Dowd had joined the little company in the "parlour." He discussed books with Mrs. Pollock and Miss Miller, fashions with Miss Grady, politics with Mr. Pollock,--(agreeing with the latter on President Wilson),--art with Mr. Hatch and the erudite Miss Miller, the drama with every one. Now, Courtney Thane knew almost nothing about books, and even less about pictures. He possessed, however, a remarkable facility when it came to discussing them. He belonged to that rather extensive class of people who thrive on ignorance. If you wanted to talk about Keats or Shelley, he managed to give you the impression that he was thoroughly familiar with both,--though lamenting a certain rustiness of memory at times. He could talk intelligently about Joseph Conrad, Arnold Bennet, Bernard Shaw, Galsworthy, Walpole, Mackenzie, Wells and others of the modern English school of novelists,--that is to say, he could differ or agree with you on almost anything they had written, notwithstanding the fact that he had never read a line by any one of them. He professed not to care for Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure," though nothing could have been more obscure to him than the book itself or the author thereof, and agreed with the delightful Mrs. Pollock that "The Mayor of Casterbridge" was an infinitely better piece of work than "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." As for the American writers, he admitted a shameful ignorance about them. "Of course, I read Scott when I was a boy,--I was compelled to do so, by the way,--but as for the others I am shockingly unfamiliar with them. Ever since I grew up I've preferred the English novelists and poets, so I fear I--" "I thought Scott was an English writer," put in Charlie Webster quietly. "What Scott are you referring to, Charlie?" he asked indulgently. "Why, Sir Walter Scott,--he wrote 'Ivanhoe,' you know." "Well, I happen to be speaking of William Scott, the American novelist,--no doubt unknown to most of you. He was one of the old-timers, and I fancy has dropped out of the running altogether." "Never heard of him," said Mr. Pollock, scratching his ear reflectively. "Indigenous to New England, I fancy,--like the estimable codfish," drawled Courtney, and was rewarded by a wholesome Middle West laugh. "What are those cabarets like?" inquired Mr. Hatch. He pronounced it as if he were saying cigarettes. "Pretty rotten," said Thane. "Are you fond of dancing, Mr. Thane?" inquired Mrs. Pollock. "I used to love to trip the light fantastic."