“She’ll come,” he said, “if it’s up to the neck. Her mother saw me go past.” He proceeded with his toilet. I told him that Leslie had sent the carriage for Alice and Madie. He slapped his fat legs, and exclaimed: “Miss Gall—I smell sulphur! Beardsall, old boy, there’s fun in the wind. Madie, and the coy little Tempest, and——” he hissed a line of a music-hall song through his teeth. During all this he had straightened his cream and lavender waistcoat: “Little pink of a girl worked it for me—a real juicy little peach—chipped somehow or other”—he had arranged his white bow—he had drawn forth two rings, one a great signet, the other gorgeous with diamonds, and had adjusted them on his fat white fingers; he had run his fingers delicately, through his hair, which rippled backwards a trifle tawdrily—being fine and somewhat sapless; he had produced a box, containing a cream carnation with suitable greenery; he had flicked himself with a silk handkerchief, and had dusted his patent-leather shoes; lastly, he had pursed up his lips and surveyed himself with great satisfaction in the mirror. Then he was ready to be presented. “Couldn’t forget to-day, Lettie. Wouldn’t have let old Pluto and all the bunch of ’em keep me away. I skimmed here like a ‘Brra-ave’ on my snow-shoes, like Hiawatha coming to Minnehaha.” “Ah—that was famine,” said Marie softly. “And this is a feast, a gorgeous feast, Miss Tempest,” he said, bowing to Marie, who laughed. “You have brought some music?” asked mother. “Wish I was Orpheus,” he said, uttering his words with exaggerated enunciation, a trick he had caught from his singing I suppose. “I see you’re in full feather, Tempest. Is she kind as she is fair?’” “Who?” Will pursed up his smooth sensuous face that looked as if it had never needed shaving. Lettie went out with Marie, hearing the bell ring. “She’s an houri!” exclaimed William. “Gad, I’m almost done for! She’s a lotus-blossom!—But is that your ring she’s wearing, Tempest?” “Keep off,” said Leslie. “And don’t be a fool,” said I. “Oh, O-O-Oh!” drawled Will, “so we must look the other way! ‘Le bel homme sans merci!’” He sighed profoundly, and ran his fingers through his hair, keeping one eye on himself in the mirror as he did so. Then he adjusted his rings and went to the piano. At first he only splashed about brilliantly. Then he sorted the music, and took a volume of Tchaikowsky’s songs. He began the long opening of one song, was unsatisfied, and found another, a serenade of Don Juan. Then at last he began to sing. His voice is a beautiful tenor, softer, more mellow, less strong and brassy than Leslie’s. Now it was raised that it might be heard upstairs. As the melting gush poured forth, the door opened. William softened his tones, and sang ‘dolce,’ but he did not glance round. “Rapture!—Choir of Angels,” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands and gazing up at the lintel of the door like a sainted virgin.