There, in the great Board Room of the Corporation, they offered, one by one, their congratulations to the old man. An enemy had once said of Sir Vernon Brooklyn that he was the finest stage gentleman in Europe—both on and off the stage. The saying was unjust, but there was enough of truth in it to sting. Sir Vernon was a little apt to act off the stage; and the habit had perhaps grown on him since his retirement. To-night, with his fine silver hair and keen, well-cut features, he was very much the gentleman, dispensing noble hospitality with just too marked a sense of its magnificence. But it was Sir Vernon’s day, and his guests were there to do his will, to draw him out into reminiscence, to enhance his sense of having made the most of life’s chances, and of being sure to leave behind him those who would carry on the great tradition. The talk turned to the building of the Piccadilly Theatre. The old man told them how, from the first days of his success, he had made up his mind to build himself the finest theatre in London. From the first he had his eye on the site of Liskeard House; and it had taken him twenty years to persuade the Liskeards, impoverished as they were, to sell it for such a purpose. At last he had secured the site, and then again his foresight had been rewarded. Not for nothing had he paid for George Brooklyn’s training as an architect, based on the lad’s own bent, and given him the opportunity to study playhouse architecture in every quarter of the globe. The Piccadilly Theatre was not only George Brooklyn’s masterpiece: it was, structurally, acoustically, visually, for comfort, in short in every way, the finest theatre in the world. It was also the best paying theatre. And, the old man said, if in his day he had been the finest actor, so was George’s wife still the finest actress, if only she would not waste on domesticity the gift that was meant for mankind. For Mrs. George Brooklyn, as Isabelle Raven, had been the star of the Piccadilly Theatre until she had married its designer and quitted the stage, sorely against Sir Vernon’s will. Sir Vernon was in his best form; and the talk, led by him, was rapid and, at times, brilliant. But there was at least one of those present to whom it made no appeal; for Joan Cowper was painfully anxious as to the result of Lucas’s interview with Sir Vernon. Several times she caught his eye; but, although he smiled at her down the table, his look brought her no reassurance. At last, when the servants had withdrawn after the last course, Joan rose, purposing to lead the ladies to the drawing-room. But Sir Vernon waved her back to her seat, saying that, before they left the table, there was something which he wanted them all to hear. Clearly there was nothing for it but to wait; but Joan made up her mind that, if Sir Vernon spoke of her publicly as engaged to Prinsep, not even the spoiling of his birthday party should stop her from speaking her mind. Chapter II Sir Vernon’s Will