"And a club," added Wellington. "Every fellah must have a club. We'd put you up, but ours is for the profession." "Profession?" asked John. He was eager to know what they were. He had never met any one quite like this. "We're on the stage," replied Wellington. "Oh--it must be very interesting work, acting." "We aren't actors; we're in the ballet--the Empire. We're opening next Monday--'Scheherezade.'" De Courtrai stroked his ankle. "A superb spectacle, you must come." John had never seen a ballet and he could not imagine the parts played by these young exquisites. He remembered two pictures by an artist called Degas, on which Mr. Vernley set great value. They were of ladies in short fluffy skirts with stumpy legs, on one of which they stood, stork-like. Bobbie said they were ballet-girls, and that Tod had once run one, whereupon John naïvely asked "Which won?" causing Vernley to collapse in shrieks of merriment. He had never heard of men doing ballet dancing. Perhaps they had something to do with the scenery. He did not care to hint at this, however, and said how much he would like to see the ballet. "He'd better come on Wednesday, my dear," said de Courtrai, addressing Wellington, "when we're doing 'Carnival.' He'll fall in love with Harlequin, won't he?" Mr. Wellington giggled and exclaimed-- "S'nice!" "Is she very beautiful?" asked John. They opened their eyes wide. Mr. Wellington again giggled, put his hand delicately on his hips, shook himself and exclaimed, "Chase me!" "My dear!" exclaimed de Courtrai, dabbing his nose with a highly-scented handkerchief, "It isn't a she, it's a he!" They laughed again, in a high-pitched key which jarred on the young man, and they saw that he resented their mirth. "You mustn't mind, old thing," de Courtrai exclaimed apologetically, touching John's arm. "You're really rather sweet." John got up. "I'm afraid I must go and unpack now." "Can we help?" volunteered Wellington. "No, thanks, I haven't much," he replied and went out. He could hear them giggling as he went upstairs to his room, and felt furious with them for making such a fool of him. How was he to know that Harlequin wasn't a ballet-girl? He would talk less in future, and not ask so many questions. But he disliked their manner although they had been very friendly. Half an hour later there was a tap on his door. With his head deep in the almost empty trunk, John paused. The tap was repeated. In reply to his call Wellington and de Courtrai entered, the latter carrying a cup. "We've brought you some coffee we've made in our room. Ma Perdie won't make it without a shilling extra." "Oh, thank you," said John taking the cup. They paused. "Won't you sit down?--at least, there's only two chairs; I'll sit on the bed." They sat down and John sipped the coffee. It was made from essence and sickly sweet, but he had to drink it.