Until that moment his feelings had been entirely of self-reproach. He had acquired the bitter knowledge that a great chance had been given him—the chance for which he had waited all his life—and he—he couldn’t deal with it. To-morrow evening the public would witness an exhibition so execrable, so vile, that the veriest tyro might be ashamed of giving it. But the sight of Sir Owen Frazer’s mirth brought about an instant metamorphosis. The self-reproach vanished, to be supplanted by a dull and smouldering rage. With compressed lips he made as if to approach the Knight; then, turning about, he swept superbly from the stage. Back at his hotel he came to a great decision. Failure on the morrow was certain. Well, fail he might, but not on the lines of Raymond Wakefield’s laying. London should see Eliphalet Cardomay play Cellini on his own methods—play it, in fact, just as he had played “The Silver King,” and a hundred other creations. A rehearsal was called for his especial benefit next day, but he telephoned to say that he had no intention of being present. Raymond Wakefield got into a cab and set forth to see what it was all about. He found his quarry, arrayed in a gorgeous kimono, discussing a late breakfast. “Look, here, Mr. Cardomay,” he began, “do you consider this is fair?” Eliphalet motioned him to a chair and placed cigarettes within easy reach. “My dear young Mr. Raymond Wakefield,” he said, choosing his words with slow deliberation, “I have no intention to rehearse again, because it would be useless. You, with unexampled brilliance—and, believe me, no one is more sensible of your admirable gifts than I am—have devoted an entire week in a fruitless endeavour to teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Doubtless grandmothers should know how to perform this delicate ritual, doubtless it is expedient and is expected of them; but many are too old to learn, and, right or wrong, prefer to decapitate the ova with a table knife and assimilate its albuminous contents with the aid of a teaspoon. I have done my best, and have failed—confessedly, I have proved an inept pupil, and, to complete the metaphor, have dribbled the yolk and the white all over my waistcoat like a child that knows no better.” “My dear chap,” exclaimed Raymond Wakefield, striking one hand against the other, “if only you would play Cellini as you are talking now, I’d turn into a door-mat for you to wipe your feet on. Now, let’s run over it just once more.” But Eliphalet Cardomay was adamant. The Duke of Connaught’s Theatre was packed to overflowing for the opening performance of “Benvenuto Cellini.” Incidentally, every member of the dramatic profession, not otherwise engaged, made it a duty to be present, some even going to the extremity of paying for their seats.