One afternoon in February, one of those rare afternoons on which the winter sun glorifies the gloomy London streets, Mr. Clare called at the office of a comic periodical, the editor of which had accepted some of his lighter verses--society poems in the Praed and Locker manner. Two or three of his contributions had been published within the last month, and he came to the office with the pleasant consciousness that there was a cheque due to him. ‘I shall treat myself to a careful little dinner at the _Restaurant du Pavillon_,’ he told himself, ‘and a stall at the Prince of Wales’s to wind up the evening.’ He was not a man of vicious tastes. It was not the _aqua fortis_ of vice, but the champagne of pleasure that he relished. He was too fond of himself, too careful of his own well-being, to fling away youth, health, and vigour in the sloughs and sewers of evil living. He had a refined selfishness that was calculated to keep him pure of low iniquities. He had no aspiration to scale mountain peaks, but he had sufficient regard for himself to eschew gutters. The cheque was ready for him, but when he had signed the formal receipt the clerk told him the editor wanted to speak to him presently, if he would be kind enough to wait a few minutes. ‘There’s a gentleman with him, but I don’t suppose he’ll be long,’ said the clerk, ‘if you don’t mind waiting.’ Mr. Clare did not mind, particularly. He sat down on an office stool, and made himself a cigarette, while he thoughtfully planned his dinner. He was not going to be extravagant. A plate of bisque soup, a slice of salmon _en papilotte_, a wing of chicken with mushrooms, an omelette, half a bottle of St. Julien, and a glass of vermuth. While he was musing pleasantly thus, the swinging inner door of the office was dashed open, and a gentleman walked quickly through to the open doorway that led into the street, with only a passing nod to the clerk. Edward Clare just caught a glimpse of his face as he turned to give that brief salutation. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, starting up from his stool, and dropping the half-made cigarette. ‘Mr. Chicot, the artist.’ ‘Are you sure?’ The clerk grinned. ‘Pretty positive,’ he said. ‘He comes here every week, sometimes twice a week. I ought to know him.’ Edward knew the name well. The slap-dash caricatures, more Parisian in style than English, which adorned the middle page of the weekly paper called ‘FOLLY AS IT FLIES,’ were all signed ‘Chicot.’ The dancer’s admirers, for the most part, gave her the credit of those productions, an idea which Mr. Smolendo had taken care to encourage. It was an advantage that his dancer should be thought a woman of many accomplishments--a Sarah Bernhardt in a small way.