"Opera is really the best way of carrying on life," she said. "You always sing, and at any crisis you sing a tune--a real tune. And if the crisis is really frightful, you make it the end of the act, pull the curtain down, and have some slight refreshment in privacy, and put on another frock. Mr. Home, is that Mrs. Israels there--that woman bound in green? How nice to have a husband who is a magnate of South African affairs! You can even afford to be bound in green; it doesn't matter how you look if you are rich enough." Philip looked where she pointed; it certainly was Mrs. Israels. "Yes, that is she," he said; "but I had no idea they were as rich as her appearance indicates." Lady Ellington gave a little gasp of horror. "Good gracious, I forgot you were a magnate too!" she cried. "How rude of me! But, really, you are so unlike Mrs. Israels." Then she sank her voice to a confidential whisper. "Dear Mr. Home," she said, with all the brilliance of unpremeditated invention, "do talk shop with me for one minute. Ellington told me he had got a little sum of money--you know the sort of thing, not big enough to be of any real use--ah, you mustn't tell him I asked you. He would be furious, quite furious. Yes, and if you could just casually mention some investment which might eventually cause it to be of some use----" Philip--she could not see him, as he was sitting behind her, with his arm on the back of her chair--could not help frowning. He was delighted to be of any use to his friends, but sometimes, as now, his help was asked in a sideways, hole-and-corner manner. Why shouldn't her husband know? He did not like intrigue at any time; purposeless intrigue was even more tiresome. But he expunged the frown from his voice anyhow when he answered: "Yes, I can certainly recommend you an investment or two," he said, "but I can promise you no certainty. I can only say that I hold a stake in them myself. I suppose, as you have this--this sum of money, you will take up your shares--pay for them, I mean!" She gave a little laugh of surprise. "You are too delicious!" she said. "You mean we can buy them without paying for them, like a bill?" He laughed. "Well, I don't recommend that," he said. "But it can be done. However, that is not my concern, as I'm not a broker. I will send you a note in the morning." "Too good of you!" she said. "And you won't tell my husband I asked you?" "Certainly not," said he, "though I really can't imagine why not." The unreal Philip--the one, that is to say, that Madge did not know--had had the door slammed pretty smartly in his face, and when the real Philip went to Evelyn's studio the next afternoon he had not attempted to put in another appearance. Evelyn, when he arrived, was working at the background of Madge's portrait, and he yelled to the other to keep his eyes off it.