“Perhaps you imagine I’m too dense to see through that remark,” said Barney, with the condescension of true genius. “I know your sneering ways: but let me tell you what I meant was that both the musician and myself are unrecognized by the mob of commonplace people of whom you are so distinguished a representative.” (“I flatter myself I had him there,” whispered Barney, aside, to the lady on his right.) “Yes, my boy, the day will come when you will be proud to say you were invited to these receptions, which I intend to make one of the artistic features of London society.” “Why, Barney,” protested the young man, “I’m proud of it now. I make myself objectionable in all my clubs by continually bragging that you smile upon me. I claim that you are in art what the Universal Provider is in commerce.” “Do get him to play something while we are resting,” murmured the lady, thus pouring oil on the troubled waters. Langly sat at the piano, a disconsolate figure, paying no attention to the hum of conversation around him. His thoughts were far away, in the squalid room where the dead girl lay. Barney bustled up to him, and the musician came to himself with a start on being spoken to. “Here are several Hungarian mazurkas--weird things--you’ll like’em. Just polish off a few for us while we have some tea, will you? They are all complimenting your playing--they’re people who know a good thing when they hear it. Won’t you have some refreshment yourself before you begin?” Langly shook his head, and began playing the Hungarian music. Barney sat down again beside the lady, smiling with satisfaction at being able to pose as the patron of so accomplished a musician. The lady leaned her chin on her hand, and listened intently. “How marvellously he does those mazurkas!” she whispered, softly. “He brings out that diabolical touch which seems to be in much of the Polish and Hungarian music.” “Yes,” assented Barney, cordially, “he does play like the devil, yet he is an organist in a church. Ah, well, I suppose Beelzebub looks after our music as he does our morals.” “Has he composed anything?” “Who? Satan?” “No, no. You know very well I’m speaking of the organist.” “Composed! Well, rather. He’s an unrecognized genius, but I’m going to look after his recognition. I’m going to bring out some of his works, if he’ll let me. He’s a very modest man, and----” “Another likeness to yourself.” “Exactly, exactly. I’m always pushing other people forward and neglecting my own interests; still, I’ll arrive some of these days and astonish you all, don’t you know. You see, our set doesn’t produce men of genius like that organist. The ‘upper ten’ never produced a Shakespeare.” “I thought it did. Didn’t Lord Bacon write Shakespeare?”