So the good lady, who was a motherly soul, established them at a little marble-topped table and brought many delicacies, and Eliphalet, an Easter cake in one hand and a marzipan potato in the other, began to talk. He told them many little incidents of his own childhood—his voice sounding very far away. He told them the plot of _Julius Cæsar_ and how he would like to be a grandfather—or a father—and what he intended to put on for this spring season, and about a villa at New Brighton where he would live when he retired. And all the while the children swallowed the cakes and thought him amiable but mad. It was seven-fifteen when the feast was suddenly broken up by the violent entry of Mr. Dyson. He had called at Eliphalet’s rooms and learnt of his unusual departure, and when the actor did not put in an appearance at the theatre, had hastened out in great alarm to search the neighbourhood. “It was sheer luck that I saw you through the window,” he cried. “Do you know what the _time_ is?” “How should I, since it waits for no man?” said Eliphalet. “You’ve got barely ten minutes to get on the stage.” This startling announcement brought Eliphalet abruptly to his feet. “Dear me! I had forgotten. There are so few children in my life. Madam, please,” he placed half a sovereign on the counter, and shook his head at the proffered change. “Give it to them in a bag. Come, Dyson. Ten minutes, you said.” As they hurried from the shop one of the children asked, “Is yon his keeper, missus?” Mr. Dyson gripped him by the arm and dragged him along. “Gave me the scare of my life. How did you come to overlook what the hour was?” “That’s what I must have done,” replied Eliphalet hazily. “Hope you took that stuff all right?” “Yes—I think so. Fancy I ought to have another dose. Let’s stop and buy some more.” “No time. I’ll give you some at the theatre. Hurry along.” The local dresser was not a man of marked intelligence or great celerity of action, but he contrived to get Eliphalet into the outer coverings of the Reverend Barnard Coles in less than quarter of an hour. Mr. Dyson, busily employed in the front of the house, sent round his bottle of Enoch’s Instantaneous, half of which Eliphalet drank. He would probably have drunk the rest, had not the cork been pushed inwards and floated across the neck of the bottle before he had finished the contents. Just before his entrance, Mr. Dyson rushed round with a few words of warning. “Clinkin’ house,” he said. “Packed out—but they may want holding.” “Thass all right—we know.” “Feeling pretty good in yourself?” Eliphalet took a deep breath, closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. At that instant he heard his cue. Alert at once, he opened the door and walked on to the stage. The lights dazzled him. He was struck with a consciousness of something left undone. What was it? Ah! he had failed to answer Mr. Dyson’s question. Wherefore he promptly replied: “No, I feel rather funny.”