Both these young men had worked hard at the piece, and Mortimer, having approved of the first act, had determined to put the play on the stage: first, because he saw it was by no means a bad piece, and secondly, he had nothing else handy to bring forward. If he could have obtained a new and successful opera-bouffe from London, "Faust Upset" would have been ignominiously shelved, but, luckily for Keith and his friends, all the late opera-bouffes had been failures, so Mortimer made a virtue of necessity, and gave them a chance. It was about eleven o'clock at night, and the smoking-room of the "Skylarks" was full. Some of the members had been there for some hours, others had dropped in after the theatres were closed, and here and there could be seen a reporter scribbling his notes for publication next day. A luxurious apartment it was, with lounging chairs covered with crimson plush, plenty of mirrors, and a number of marble-topped tables, which were now covered with various beverages. Every one was talking loudly, and the waiters were flitting about actively employed in ministering to the creature comforts of the patrons of the club. What with the dusky atmosphere caused by the smoking, the babel of voices, the jingle of glasses, and the constant moving about of the restless crowd, it looked like some fantastic nightmare. Keith was seated in a corner smoking a cigarette and waiting for Ezra, who had promised to meet him there, and in the meantime was idly watching the crowd of his friends, and listening to their gossip. Malton was also lounging about the room, chatting to his friends on current topics. "Anything going on in the House?" asked Pelk, a theatrical critic, of Slingsby, who had just entered. That gentleman shrugged his shoulders. "A slanging match, as usual," he replied, taking a seat and ringing the bell. "Some members have got an idea that abuse is wit. I don't think much of the Victorian Parliament." "It's better than the New South Wales one, at all events," said Keith, smiling. "That's not saying much," retorted Slingsby, lighting a cigar. "The Sydney men are more like fractious children than anything else, though to be sure that's only proper, seeing our Parliaments are nurseries for sucking politicians." "That's severe." "But true--the truth is always disagreeable." "Perhaps that's the reason so few people speak it." "Exactly--truth is a sour old maid whom nobody wants." "Not you, at all events, Slingsby" "No--it's a matter of choice--_Video meliora proboque deteriora sequor_." "Don't be classical--it's out of place here." "Not a bit," retorted Slingsby smoothly, looking round at the circle of grinning faces, "it's out of the dictionary, you know, foreign words and affixes." Every one roared at this candid confession. "No wonder _The Penny Whistle_ flourishes when there's such men as you on the staff," said Toltby, with a sneer.