“Couldn’t you give us a song, Mr. Cole?” continued Ahlberg, laughing, “English and American fashion, you know. Something about wine and mirth.” Mr. Cole smiled coquettishly, and cleared his throat. “Perhaps I might try ‘The Heart Bowed Down With Weight of Woe,’” said he. “Yes--yes--” “Or, ‘Then You’ll Remember Me.’ That’s more sentimental--more suited for the occasion.” “‘Then You’ll Remember Me,’ by all means. Gentlemen, a chorus.” Mr. Cole, placing his hand upon his heart, after having drained another glass of champagne, began in a weak and rather shaky voice, “‘When other lips and other hearts Their tales of love shall tell.’ “Gentlemen, I’m not in good voice to-night. “‘In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well; When hollow hearts shall wear a mask,’ “Here, Hans, old boy, I’ll take another glass of Chablis-- “‘’Twill break your own to see, In such a moment I but a--a--a--sk That you’ll remember me.’” Here a tremendous chorus, led by Mr. Ahlberg, broke in, accompanied with much pounding on the table, and a rhythmic jingling of glasses: “Then you’ll remember me, boys, Then you’ll remember me.” Mr. Cole, very much annoyed and preposterously dignified, began to protest. “Gentlemen--er--beloved brethren, I mean gentlemen, this song is a sentimental one--a sentimental song, d’ye hear--and does not admit of a convivial chorus. Now, I’ll give you the last verse over.” Mr. Cole, looking lackadaisically at the ceiling, began again. When he reached the last line, again an uproarious chorus took the words out of his mouth. He rose, and steadying himself on his feet, implored silence in pantomime. In vain. Ahlberg and Hibbs with shouts and yells of laughter carried the chorus through. Pembroke could not but laugh, but he said to the little clergyman, in a tone subdued but authoritative: “Sit down, Cole.” Mr. Cole glanced fiercely at him. “Were it not for my cloth, sir, you--you’d--receive personal chastisement for that remark,” he responded angrily; but comparing his own slender figure with Pembroke’s length and strength, he plaintively continued: “But I’m afraid you could lick me, Pembroke. You always did at school, you know.” Pembroke made no reply. He was no anchorite. He had sometimes found amusement in low company in low places--but low company in better places disgusted him. Besides, Cole was an honest little fellow, and not half such a fool as he appeared--and he had a conscience, and Pembroke began to feel sorry already for the pain poor Cole would have to endure.