"But she's acting already in the first." Mrs. Cadell, secretly pleased, did not wish the fact to appear. "I know. But there'll be loads of time." McTaggart swept the excuse aside. "The second tableau is in three parts; it will take at least a quarter of an hour. And it's really such a lovely scene--the stage will be a mass of flowers. Do say 'Yes.'" His blue eyes pleaded as he glanced from the mother back to the girl. "Would you like it, Cydonia?" Mrs. Cadell consulted her daughter, but before the latter could find time to reply the door was opened by the butler, announcing the long-expected guest. The Bishop of Oxton hurried in: a slight, bent man past the prime of life with a domed head which seemed too large for the small and delicate features beneath. His short-sighted, prominent eyes held a look of chronic bewilderment, and about his thin lips hovered a smile, sweet and deprecating, as though he felt perpetual astonishment at the high position thrust upon him. "I fear I'm a trifle late," he said, shaking hands with Mrs. Cadell--"the fact is I have been detained by a matter of business in the City." He beamed affectionately at Cydonia, with an absent-minded glance towards McTaggart. The hostess introduced the men. "Ah yes." The Bishop blinked. "I fancy we have met before--at my cousin's, Lady Leason." "That's curious." McTaggart laughed--"I've just this moment come from her, hot-foot on a begging errand." "Then I'm sure," the Bishop responded suavely, "that your mission will not be in vain! This is the house of Charity." The butler, to emphasize the fact, announced that the prelate's lunch was served. McTaggart began to take his leave, but his hostess would not hear of it. "You _must_ stay and lunch with us--we have to decide about the Tableaux." "I've half promised a man at the Club..." He offered the well-worn excuse, but Mrs. Cadell moved to the door. "A half promise," she said lightly, "is surely one that can be broken." As they passed out on to the stairs she referred the matter to the Bishop. "You mustn't ask for my opinion," he entered into the little joke. "I'm not a believer in half measures! But if you make it a point of conscience I should say it depended upon the host." "In that case"--McTaggart smiled--"I may consider myself absolved. It was what the Americans call 'Dutch Treat'--each to pay his own expenses." They settled themselves at the round table, curiously inlaid with brass, smooth and innocent of cloth, where oysters in old Wedgwood plates lay on mats of Italian lace. The fruit, piled high on a centre dish--grapes with peaches and pears beneath--and the gold-flecked Venetian glass gave it a wholly foreign look. And this was emphasized by the room; the faded tapestry of the walls forming a mellow-toned background for the high-backed chairs and painted chest--once a wedding-coffer of state--and the heavy curtains of brocade, where the gold thread, tarnished, caught the light.