“Of course,” said Sam, “and has a few more things in since you saw it.” “Well,” said George, “it’s a nice house, but I’m going to see yon clerk to tell him not to put up banns.” Sam smiled, relieved to know that he was not too late. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Madge is pleased.” “What!” said George. “Say that again.” “Madge is pleased,” repeated Sam brazenly. He was sure she was. He trusted Sarah Pullen now. “Did she tell you so?” asked George. “Do you imagine I’d be giving you a message like this if she hadn’t sent it?” George took his cap off. “If that’s so----” he said. “It’s so,” said Sam, not defining what was so. The banns went up, and Sam was able to devote his undivided attention to Club affairs, as to which he had an idea arising out of the boredom he suffered while reading “The Clandestine Marriage.” That tuppence was a fruitful investment. A wet day came and with it, what was now rare, a full attendance at the Club. But, since their repairs and decorations were complete, there was nothing to do except to sit on their reliable chairs and admire their reliability. “For a Hell-fire Club,” said Sandy, “we lack hellishness.” “Lance named us,” said Dubby. “He ought to make suggestions.” “Of a new name?” asked Sandy. “Call it the Eviscerated Emasculates.” “Call it a damned failure,” said another, and was sat upon. They welcomed the diversion, but the thought had reached home. “What’s the matter,” said Sam, when order was restored, “is that we aren’t serious enough.” “Oh, hell!” said Lance. “I mean it, Lance. We’re not a set of kids from the Lower School. If we were, we might sit round and read Chums and the Boy’s Own Paper.” Two men of the Classical Fifth and the Hell-fire Club looked guiltily at him, but decided that he was not making personal allusions. “As it is, we have higher interests. Now, there are six of us here and that’s enough, with doubling, to take parts in a Shakesperian play. I vote we read a play. In fact, I brought some down.” This suited Lance, who had aspirations towards the stage. “Bags I Romeo,” he said. Sandy was less fired to enthusiasm, but, “All right,” he said, “if you choose a play with lots of thick bits in it.” “We certainly,” said Sam, “shall not read an edition prepared for the use of girls’ schoofs.” “_Merry Wives of Windsor_, then,” said Dubby. “Lance can spout Romeo out of his bedroom window to stop a cat-fight.” Sam would have preferred a tragedy; he feared they would enjoy reading The Merry Wives and so, on the whole, they did, but there were only five promises to turn up next day and two of those were conditional upon its being wet. Sam wasn’t dissatisfied, and as a comedy was postulated chose _Much Ado about Nothing_, because he thought that it was dull in patches and also for a reason of his own. He wanted to make certain that he had nothing to learn as an intriguer from a famous case of match-making. He found he had.