It was a great night; there could be no doubt of that; Humphreys had said so, and when Humphreys so far committed himself, he was generally right. Humphreys was Mr. Likely's treasurer, confidential man, factotum. He stood at the front of the theatre to receive the important people,--notably the press,--to settle discord, to hint what was the real strength of the forthcoming piece, to beg a little indulgence for Miss Satterthwaite's hoarseness, or for the last scene of the second act, which poor Coverflats, worn off his legs, had scarcely had time to finish. He knew exactly to whom to bow, with whom to shake hands. He knew exactly where to plant the different representatives of the press, keeping up a proper graduation, yet never permitting any critic to think that he was not sufficiently honoured. He knew when to start the applause, when to hush the house into silence. Better than all, he knew where to take Mr. Likely's acceptances to get them discounted; kept an account of the dates, and paid the renewal fees out of the previous night's receipts. An invaluable man Humphreys; a really wonderful fellow! When Laurence Alsager flung away the end of his cigarette under the Parthenium portico, and strolled leisurely into the house, he found Humphreys standing in exactly the same position in which he had last seen him two years since; and he almost quailed as, delivering up his ticket, he returned the treasurer's bow, and thanked him for his welcome. "Glad to see you back, Colonel. Something worth showing to you to-night!" and then Laurence laughed outright. He had been away for two years; he had seen the Sphinx and the Pyramids, and all the wonders of the East, to say nothing of the European continent; and here was a man congratulating himself that in a three-act tinpot play they had something worthy of his observation. So he nodded and laughed, and passed on into the theatre. Well, if there were no change in Humphreys, there was little enough in any one else. There they were, all the old set: half-a-dozen newspaper critics dotted over the front rows of the stalls; two or three attached to the more important journals in private boxes; celebrated author surrounded by his family in private box; other celebrated author scowling by himself in orchestra stall; two celebrated artists who always came to first-nights amusing themselves by talking about art before the curtain goes up; fat man with vulgar wife with wreath of roses in her head,--alderman, wholesale stationer, said to be Mr. Frank Likely's backer, in best stage-box; opposite stage-box being reserved by Jewish old party, landlord of the theatre, and now occupied by the same, asleep and choking. Lady Ospringe of course, with (equally of course) the latest lion of the day by her side--on this occasion a very little man, with long fair hair, who, as Laurence afterwards learned, had written a poem all about blood and slaughter. The Duke and Duchess of