Mr Jenkinson Neeld sat at lunch at the Imperium Club, quite happy with a neck chop, last week's _Athenæum_, and a pint of Apollinaris. To him enter disturbers of peace. "How are you, Neeld?" said Lord Southend, taking the chair next him. "Sit down here, Iver. Let me introduce you--Mr Iver--Mr Neeld. Bill of fare, waiter." His lordship smiled rather maliciously at Mr Neeld as he made the introduction, which Iver acknowledged with bluff courtesy, Neeld with a timid little bow. "How are things down your way?" pursued Southend, addressing Iver. "Lady Tristram's very ill, I hear?" "I'm afraid so." "Wonderful woman that, you know. You ought to have seen her in the seventies--when she ran away with Randolph Edge." A gentleman, two tables off, looked round. "Hush, Southend! That's his brother," whispered Mr Neeld. "Whose brother?" demanded Southend. "That's Wilmot Edge--Sir Randolph's brother." "Oh, the deuce it is. I thought he'd been pilled." Blackballs also were an embarrassing subject; Neeld sipped his Apollinaris nervously. "Well, as I was saying" (Lord Southend spoke a little lower), "she went straight from the Duchess of Slough's ball to the station, as she was, in a low gown and a scarlet opera cloak--met Edge, whose wife had only been dead three months--and went off with him. You know the rest of the story. It was a near run for young Harry Tristram! How is the boy, Iver?" "The boy's very much of a man indeed; we don't talk about the near run before him." Southend laughed. "A miss is as good as a mile," he said, "eh, Neeld? I'd like to see Addie Tristram again--though I suppose she's a wreck, poor thing!" "Why couldn't she marry the man properly, instead of bolting?" asked Iver. He did not approve of such escapades. "Oh, he had to bolt anyhow--a thorough bad lot--debts, you know--her people wouldn't hear of it; besides she was engaged to Fred Nares--you don't remember Fred? A devilish passionate fellow, with a wart on his nose. So altogether it was easier to cut and run. Besides she liked the sort of thing, don't you know. Romantic and all that. Then Edge vanished, and the other man appeared. That turned out all right, but she ran it fine. Eh, Neeld?" Mr Neeld was sadly flustered by these recurring references to him. He had no desire to pose as an authority on the subject. Josiah Cholderton's diary put him in a difficulty. He wished to goodness he had been left to the peaceful delights of literary journalism. "Well, if you'll come down to my place, I can promise to show you Harry Tristram; and you can go over and see his mother if she's better." "By Jove, I've half a mind to! Very kind of you, Iver. You've got a fine place, I hear." "I've built so many houses for other people that I may be allowed one for myself, mayn't I? We're proud of our neighborhood," he pursued, politely addressing himself to Mr Neeld. "If you're ever that way, I hope you'll look me up. I shall be delighted to welcome a fellow-member of the Imperium."