The talk drifted to the precariousness of the actor's calling. Even men in demand from every management found a difficulty in making a living. Herold instanced Brownlow, one of the few _jeunes premiers_ of the stage, who had slaved every day for a year, and having been in four or five successive failures, found himself, at the end of it, the recipient of three months' salary. Six weeks' slavery at rehearsal for nothing, and a two weeks' run! The system ought to be changed. John agreed, as he had agreed to the same argument a thousand times before. “But I don't like to see you so pulled down,” said he, affectionately. Herold smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He, too, had not slept; but he did not inform John of the fact. It was a significant aspect of their friendship, if not of their respective temperaments, that John received few of Herold's confidences. The essential sympathizers among men are mute as to their own cares. Divine selfishness or a pride equally noble seals their lips. John Risca, with a cut finger, would have held it up for the commiseration of Herold, cursing heft and blade, and everything cursable connected with the knife; but Herold, with a broken heart, would have held his smiling peace. For a moment he was convinced of John's faith in Stella's ignorance; but only for a moment. When she entered the palm court with Sir Oliver and Lady Blount, and he saw her eyes, dewy with a new happiness, rest on John, he felt that, awakened or unawakened, Stellamaris loved not him, Herold, but his friend. And when she came up to him in her frank, gracious way, and let her gloved little hand linger in his, he laughed and praised her radiance with a jest, and not one of the four dreamed of the pain in the man's heart. They took their seats in the gay and crowded restaurant. “This is really a palace!” cried Stella, in great delight. “Why can't every place be as beautiful as this?” She had recovered from the emotional fatigue of the night before, having slept the sound sleep of happy girlhood, and awakened to the shy consciousness of impending change. The pink of health was in her cheeks. Sir Oliver replied to her question. “It takes a deuce of a lot of money to run such a concern.” “But why has n't every one got money?” “That's what these confounded socialist fellows are asking,” replied Sir Oliver, helping himself largely to anchovies and mayonnaise of egg. But Stella scarcely heard. She remembered the tramp who had not a penny and the misery that had met her eyes during her rides abroad, and a momentary shadow fell on her. “I think there 's a great deal to be said for the socialists,” remarked Lady Julia. Sir Oliver laid down his fork and stared less at his wife than at the blasphemy. “There 's nothing to be said for 'em; nothing at all.” “You 'll admit the uneven distribution of wealth,” said Lady Blount, drawing herself up. She was rather proud of the phrase.