“A special matinée in three weeks’ time. Selections from my favourite plays. I should want you for the Trial Scene in ‘The Merchant of Venice.’ For—for Portia, in fact.” “Portia!” repeated Eunice. “Is it a good part?” “It has made many reputations,” he gravely answered, without a shade of a smile. “I’ll accept. I’ll tell Mr. Lennox at once. Oh, thank you ever so much.” “There, there,” said Eliphalet, patting her shoulder with a kindly hand. “Don’t be too grateful. One never knows!” Sydney Lennox played a losing hand rather creditably. He even refrained from expressing his views on the reason for Eliphalet’s action. Possibly he thought that to do so would have reflected but little glamour on his own personality. At the rehearsals everybody remarked to everybody else on the extraordinary lack of guidance Eliphalet gave to the youthful Portia. “She’s simply awful, my dear,” said her dressing-room companion, “but he doesn’t seem to mind.” A day or two before the matinée Eliphalet sent a letter to Henry Churchill, saying he had to give Miss Terry a “chance.” “Doubtless,” he wrote, “you will think I am behaving unfairly towards you by so doing, but I am convinced that it is the wisest course. I want you to be present and to come round after the performance (not before) and pay your respects to the little débutante.” To be sure of a good attendance an early-closing day was chosen, and a general invitation issued to the Hepplewhite Steel Works Shakespeare Society. “Don’t know what they’ll think of our Portia, Guv’nor,” said Manning. “But we _shall_ know, whatever they think,” replied Eliphalet sweetly. He had chosen an act from one of his most popular melodramas to complete the programme, and the Trial Scene was reserved for the final item. Certainly it was a meaty audience who were gathered in. The theatre was packed with a cheerful “How-do-you-do” whistling crowd, who hurled recognitions and shrill pleasantries from one part of the house to the other. In the second row of the stalls sat Henry Churchill. He had the look of a man attending his own funeral. Within his bosom there surged a great resentment against Eliphalet Cardomay, a resentment which would certainly find expression when their meeting took place after the performance. His anger was not lessened when he found himself greatly enthralled by “The Corsican Brothers,” and worked up to a keen pitch of excitement by the act from “The Weir.” It was infuriating that this shameless mummer could be capable of inspiring sensations other than those of disgust in his properly ordered brain. Then he found himself overtaken by a feeling of great nervous apprehension. In a few minutes he would be seeing his beloved bathed in the effulgent glow of the lime—treading the first stage of the road to ruin. Then the curtain rose on the Trial Scene.