It was, he said, a great pleasure to them all to observe that Mr. Cardomay had been spared to attend another of these pleasant annual meetings, and he was sure that none of them contemplated the fact that this was to be the last without sensations of regret. Their association had been more than pleasant—it had been cordial; but sooner or later the best of things came to an end. “Mr. Cardomay has been a loyal colleague to us, Gentlemen, and I venture to say we have been as loyal to him. But what was it that Æsop said about the bow?” No one appeared to know. “Well, I can’t recall the exact words, but they go to prove that you must not strain anything beyond its limit. It makes us very happy to reflect that, mainly through our support, Mr. Cardomay must now be in a comfortable financial position, and it will be pleasant to think of him spending his autumn years in some quiet little nook, standing back from the road.” He resumed his seat to an encouraging salvo of “Hear, hear!” Then Eliphalet Cardomay rose, and he looked a little white and drawn. “I take it,” he said, “by all this preamble, you wish me well, and for that I express my thanks. I was not aware you intended to break up our partnership, and perhaps it would have been more business-like and kinder to have informed me beforehand. However, that may pass. Doubtless, from your point of view, Gentlemen, I am an old pair of shoes to be thrown aside as outworn, but I would remind you that this”—and he pointed with his stick to a play-bill of “The Night Cry” hanging on a wall—“this is the first time they have let in the water. I accept my dismissal, Gentlemen, without demur, but reserve to myself the right to choose the hour of my retirement to that ivy-clad nook Dr. Wardluke painted with such eloquent impertinence in his speech. I would further recommend you to keep an eye on the theatrical columns of your newspapers, where you may see that these old shoes are still capable of covering a good many miles of the road. Good day, Gentlemen, and good-bye.” He swung his hat to his head like a cavalier, and walked proudly from the room. He booked a ticket to New Brighton, where, at the conclusion of her first film engagement, Mornice had joined him. It had always lived in Eliphalet’s brain that when he retired it would be to dwell within sight of the sea in that most delightful of resorts. The circumstances of staying there at the hour of his dismissal struck him as coldly prophetic. “But we haven’t finished yet,” he said, as the train bore him westward. “We’ll show ’em there’s stuff in the Old Card still!” No actor properly realises he has outstayed his welcome until his backers forsake him, and even Eliphalet was not convinced.