“I’ve not met the chap myself,” he began, “but I knew his secretary and travelling companion quite well in a happier day in Boston. The recital here will be Saturday evening, which means that they will remain here on Sunday until the evening train East. I shall suggest to my friend that his employer, to while away the tedium of the Sunday, might care to look in upon me in the afternoon and meet a few of our best people. Nothing boring, of course. I’ve no doubt he will arrange it. I’ve written him to Portland, where they now are.” “Rather a card that will be,” I instantly cried. “Rather better class than entertaining strolling players.” Indeed the merit of the proposal rather overwhelmed me. It would be dignified and yet spectacular. It would show the Klondike woman that we chose to have contact only with artists of acknowledged preëminence and that such were quite willing to accept our courtesies. I had hopes, too, that the Honourable George might be aroused to advantages which he seemed bent upon casting to the American winds. A week later Belknap-Jackson joyously informed me that the great artist had consented to accept his hospitality. There would be light refreshments, with which I was charged. I suggested tea in the Russian manner, which he applauded. “And everything dainty in the way of food,” he warned me. “Nothing common, nothing heavy. Some of those tiny lettuce sandwiches, a bit of caviare, macaroons--nothing gross--a decanter of dry sherry, perhaps, a few of the lightest wafers; things that cultivated persons may trifle with--things not repugnant to the artist soul.” I promised my profoundest consideration to these matters. “And it occurs to me,” he thoughtfully added, “that this may be a time for Vane-Basingwell to silence the slurs upon himself that are becoming so common. I shall beg him to meet our guest at his hotel and escort him to my place. A note to my friend, ‘the bearer, the Honourable George Augustus Vane-Basingwell, brother of his lordship the Earl of Brinstead, will take great pleasure in escorting to my home----’ You get the idea? Not bad!” Again I applauded, resolving that for once the Honourable George would be suitably attired even if I had to bully him. And so was launched what promised to be Red Gap’s most notable social event of the season. The Honourable George, being consulted, promised after a rather sulky hesitation to act as the great artist’s escort, though he persisted in referring to him as “that piano Johnny,” and betrayed a suspicion that Belknap-Jackson was merely bent upon getting him to perform without price. “But no,” cried Belknap-Jackson, “I should never think of anything so indelicate as asking him to play. My own piano will be tightly closed and I dare say removed to another room.”