“Don’t you touch it, Euny,” she said. “Don’t be a fool. You’d never forgive yourself, and it isn’t as if you’re likely to get on.” Ah! that unhappy string! Why must all her advisers harp upon it? “Isn’t it? Well, I will get on, you’ll see. I’m not going to be an old stick-in-the-mud all my life—like—like some people.” That night Flora wrote to Harry for the last time, and told him the state of affairs. On receipt of the letter Henry Churchill went quite mad. Seizing his hat and an umbrella, he rushed to the station and steamed Mary-wards by the first train. Had he possessed such a thing, he would probably have taken a revolver rather than an umbrella, for his intentions were certainly lethal. The great length of the railway journey had the effect of partially flattening his effervescence, and surely the hand of Providence was evident in the fact that the first person he met on arriving at his destination was Eliphalet Cardomay. The sight of the old actor peaceably pursuing his way brought about a fresh paroxysm of anger. Had not Eliphalet been a man of ready perceptions, it is probable that he would have made neither head nor tail of the torrent of reproaches and threats that fell from Henry’s lips; but through it all he was able to discern that here was real tragedy, and that the need for action was immediate. With great presence of mind he piloted the distraught young man into an adjacent dairy and, placing before him a bun and a glass of milk, besought him to drink and assuage his heat. And since no one can be really violent in the butter-smelling coolth of a dairy, he managed to extract the story and at the same time bring the narrator to a more rational mood. “If you will leave it to me,” he said, “I promise you on my word of honour I will put this matter right. I only ask you to go away and wait until I send for you. Do this, and all will be well.” Thereafter he piloted Henry back to the station and waited until the south-bound train bore him out of view. Then his brows came together and the lines of his mouth hardened. That night he sent for Lennox, and after a few small formalities, including the offer of a chair and a cigarette, he said: “I hear you are thinking of Miss Terry for the second lead in your new production.” “I had thought of her,” conceded Lennox. Eliphalet placed his finger-tips together. “Is that quite wise?” he asked. “She is young and very inexperienced.” “Quite so; but one can but try her.” “I see no reason why you should try her. There are many others far more suitable.” “Very likely, but I’ve promised this girl. Of course, if the audiences don’t like her, it will be easy enough to take her out of the bill.” “Will it? Will it?” There was an insistent note in Eliphalet’s voice. “Why not?” “Would your obligation towards the young lady be fairly discharged if you did?” “What obligation?”