Considering that Henry’s main desire was to placate her wrath, his response of “I don’t see how you can call being one of a crowd ‘Art,’” was as infelicitous as you could wish. Mary rose with the single word “Cad!” and, flinging the white fox about her shoulders, swept from the room. Henry did not attempt to follow her, but sat gazing into a highly-decorated coffee-cup and chewed the cud of tragedy. The love of his life was ruined—his beautiful image destroyed by the vile pollution of the stage. A great resentment surged through him that such destructive machinery should be allowed to exist to lure the righteous to their undoing. On the table before him was a throw-away of the week’s play. He picked it up and held it at arm’s length, as though it were a tract of the devil. The name Eliphalet Cardomay shrieked from the page in block type. That was the fellow—he was the man at whose door her ruin must be laid. Henry Churchill crumpled the paper fiercely, and as he saw the name twist up in his grasp a thought came to him. That evening, at ten o’clock, he was at the stage-door, demanding that his card should be conveyed to Mr. Cardomay. “Never sees anyone till after the show,” said the doorkeeper, and returned to his football edition. It was well after eleven before Henry eventually found himself in Mr. Cardomay’s dressing-room. Possibly he expected to see some Satanic apparition, for certainly he was a little astonished to find himself in the presence of a grey-haired and elderly gentleman, with a deeply-seamed face, which he was thoughtfully wiping with a towel. Over the edge of the towel peered a pair of shrewd but kindly eyes. “Yes? What can I do for you?” “I—My name is Henry Churchill.” “I had already gathered as much from your card.” “I am here on a matter of very important business.” “You are seeking an engagement, perhaps?” It was said very kindly. “No—far from it,” replied Henry. “In fact, I may say that I despise the stage and everything to do with it.” A whimsical smile played round the corners of Eliphalet’s eyes. “You appear to have chosen an odd place to make such an assertion,” was all he said. “Perhaps, but I didn’t come on that score. You have a girl here named Mary Kent.” “Not here, believe me.” “There’s no use denying it. She—she’s a member of your—troupe.” Eliphalet held up his hand. “Mr. Churchill,” he said, “would you mind going away and not returning until you have bettered your vocabulary and learnt a modicum of good manners?” The distinction with which this speech was delivered quite took the wind from Henry’s sails. “I—I am sorry,” he said, “but what would you say if your affianced were ruined—spoiled and painted up like a Jezebel?” “Do you accuse me of ruining, spoiling and painting up a certain Miss Mary Kent? Because I assure you I have never before heard the lady’s name.” “You know her better, perhaps, as Eunice Terry?”