There was no real occasion for Eliphalet to economise to the extent he was doing, for his banking account showed a comfortable credit (fruit of many years’ saving). To do so, however, was no great privation, for the provincial actor knows better than any other man how to live, and live well, on nothing a week. Better circumstances had brought little change in Eliphalet Cardomay’s mode of life. Joints appeared on the table with great frequency, perhaps, and he did not deny himself a dish of crumpets when the bell of the muffin-man sounded in the street. But these little extras he now excised, and gave further outward evidence of poverty by walking the streets with melancholy mien. He missed his Art and missed Mornice, and altogether he was ill-content. The delights of prominence so obsessed Miss Mornice that letter-writing, after the first week, showed a pathetic decline. He had to satisfy himself with postcards of which “Having a lovely time—You are a dear” was a fair sample. One day when meandering down Oxford Road, Eliphalet was heartily accosted by another old actor of the name Sefton Bulmore. Bulmore had once been a popular comedian, but had lost much of his hold upon the public. After eking out a precarious existence with special performances and short tours, he had the good fortune to obtain some fairly regular work with Eastlake’s Exclusive Cinema Company, and had given them satisfaction. He was a breezy, go-as-you-please old fellow, who would borrow a shilling or lend you a pound with equal good-nature. “Hullo, Cardomay! Dear old boy, old man—how’s things?” he hailed. “You don’t look too grand. Haven’t seen your poster about lately. Where are you showing now?” “I am not, at the moment,” replied Eliphalet. “But won’t you step along and take a cup of tea?” As they walked toward the lodging Sefton Bulmore did most of the talking, but this did not prevent him from casting sidelong glances at his companion. “Must have come a cropper somehow,” he reflected. The sight of Eliphalet’s very humble apartment and the modest fare offered strengthened this impression. Discreetly as possible he tried to discover how matters stood, but his masked inquiries failed to produce the required information. “Well, I must be getting along,” he said at last, with a hearty hand-shake. As he touched the handle of the door an idea flashed into his brain, and he turned: “Just occurred to me—I’ve come out without any ready. You might lend me a couple of ten shillings.” Eliphalet hesitated. “I haven’t so much on me,” he answered, “but I daresay——” “Lord love you, I don’t want it—only a joke—pulling your leg, that’s all. Ha! Well! Must be going, old man. Bye-bye.” Sefton Bulmore had learnt what he wanted to know—or thought he had. As he walked down the street he muttered to himself: “Tch, tch! Bad business! Poor old Card! Tch-tch. Getting old—losing ground—hipped—stony!”