The Parts Men Play. Beverley Baxter

the impression that he had smoked too many cigars the previous evening—an impression considerably strengthened by the bilious appearance of his face.

      'Good-morning, sir. Will you have the Times or the Morning Post? And here are your letters, sir.'

      The recumbent gentleman took the letters and waved them philosophically at the valet. 'Leave me to my thoughts,' he said thickly, but with considerable dignity. 'I am not interested in the squeaky jarring of the world revolving on its rusty axis.'

      Being an author, he almost invariably tried out his command of language in the morning, as a tenor essays two or three notes on rising, to make sure that his voice has not left him during his slumber.

      Mr. Watson bowed and withdrew. H. Stackton Dunckley lit a cigarette, opened the first letter, and read it.

      '8 CHELMSFORD GARDENS.

      'MY DEAR STACKY—Next Friday I am giving a little dinner-party—just a few unusual people—to meet an American author who has recently come to England. Do come; but, you brilliant man, don't be too caustic, will you?

      'Isn't it dreadful the way gossip is connecting our names? Supposing

       Lord Durwent should hear about it!—Until Friday,

      'SYBIL DURWENT.

      'P.S.—How is the play coming on? Dinner will be at 8.30.'

      H. Stackton Dunckley put the letter down and sighed. He was an author who had been writing other men's ideas all his life, but without sufficient distinction to achieve either a success or a failure. He had gained some notoriety by his wife suing him for divorce; but when the Court granted her separation on the ground of desertion, it cleared him of the charge of infidelity—and of the chance of advertisement at the same moment. Later, by being a constant attendant on Lady Durwent, he almost succeeded in creating a scandal; but, to the great disappointment of them both, London flatly refused to believe there was anything wrong. For one thing, she was the daughter of a commoner—and the morality of the middle classes is a conviction solidly rooted in English society. And then there were his writings. How could one doubt the character of a man so dull?

      Undiscouraged, they still maintained their perfectly innocent friendship, and, like kittens playing with a spool, invested it with all the appearances of an intrigue.

      Dismissing his depressing thoughts, H. Stackton Dunckley noticed that his cigarette was out, and closing his eyes, fell asleep once more.

      III.

      Madame Carlotti, clothed in a kimono of emphatic shade, sat by the fire in her rooms in Knightsbridge and read her mail while sipping coffee. She was the wife of an Italian diplomat, a sort of wandering plenipotentiary who did business in every part of the world but London, and with every Government but that of Britain. It was the signora's somewhat incomprehensible complaint that her husband's duties forced her to live in that fog-bound metropolis, and having thus achieved the pedestal of a martyr, she poured abuse on everything English from climate to customs. Possessed of a certain social dexterity and the ability to make the most ordinary conversation seem to concern a forbidden topic, Madame Carlotti was in great demand as a guest, and abused more English habits and attended more dinner-parties than any other woman in London.

      From beneath seven tradesmen's letters she extracted one from Lady

       Durwent.

      '8 CHELMSFORD GARDENS,

      'DEAREST LUCIA—I am counting on you for next Friday. A young

       American author studying England—I suppose like that Count

       Something-or-other in Pickwick Papers—is coming to dinner. I understand he drinks very little, so I am relying on you to thaw him.

      'Stackton Dunckley insists upon coming, though I tell him that it is dangerous; and of course people are saying dreadful things, I know. He is so persistent. There will be just half-a-dozen unusual people there, my dear, so don't fail me. Dinner will be at 8.30.—So sincerely, SYBIL DERWENT.

      'P.S.—Don't you think you could make Stackton interested in you? Your husband is away so much.'

      Madame Carlotti smiled with her teeth and drank some very strong coffee.

      'It ees deefficult,' she said, with that seductive formation of the lips used by her countrywomen when speaking English, 'for a magnet to attract putty. Still—there ees the American. At least I shall not be altogether bored.'

      IV.

      That noon, in a restaurant of Chelsea, the district of Pensioners and Bohemians, two young gentlemen, considerably in need of renovation by both tailor and barber, met at a table and nodded gloomily. One was Johnston Smyth, an artist, who, finding himself possessed neither of a technique nor of the industry to acquire one, had evolved a super-futurist style that had made him famous in a night. He was spoken of as 'a new force;' it was prophesied that English Art would date from him. Unfortunately his friends neglected to buy his paintings, and as his art was a vivid one, consisting of vast quantities of colour splashed indiscriminately on the canvas, it took more than his available funds to purchase the accessories of his calling. He was tall, with expressive arms that were too long for his sleeves, and a nose that would have done credit to a field-marshal.

      The other was Norton Pyford, the modernist composer, who had developed the study of discord to such a point that his very features seemed to lack proportion, and when he smiled his face presented a lop-sided appearance. He had given a recital which set every one who is any one in London talking. There was but one drawback—they talked so much that he could persuade no one to listen, and he carried his discords about with him, like a bad half-crown, unable to rid himself of them. He was short, with a retreating forehead and an overhanging wealth of black, thread-like hair, gamely covering the retreat as best it could.

      'Hello, Smyth!' drawled the composer, who affected a manner of speech usually confined to footmen in the best families. 'Hah d' do?'

      'Topping, Pyford. How's things?'

      'Rotten.'

      'Same here.'

      'I say, you couldn't'——

      'Just what I was going to ask you.'

      The composer sighed; the artist echoed the sigh.

      'Have you seen Shaw's show?'

      'Awful, isn't it?'

      'Putrid—but the English don't'——

      'Ah! What a race!'

      'Just so. I say, are you going to Lady Durwent's on Friday?'

      'Yes, rather.'

      'Look here, old fellow—don't dress, eh?'

      'Right. Let's be natural—what? Just Bohemians.'

      'The very thing. By-the-by, you don't know a laundry that gives'——

      'No, I can't say I do.'

      'Well, so long.'

      'Good-bye.'

      'See you Friday.'

      'Right.'

      V.

      Mrs. Le Roy Jennings looked up from her task of drafting the new

       Resolution to be presented to Parliament by the League of Equal Sex

       Rights and Complete Emancipation for Women, as a diminutive,

       half-starved servant brought in a letter on a tray.

      Mrs. Jennings took the missive, and frowning threateningly at the girl, who withdrew to the dark recesses of the servants' quarters, opened it by