something gained; I felt as if I had been studying Delavoy's own face, no portrait of which I had ever met. The result of it all, I easily recognised, would be to add greatly to my impatience for the finished book he had left behind, which had not yet seen the light, which was announced for a near date, and as to which rumour—I mean, of course, only in the particular warm air in which it lived at all—had already been sharp. I went out after the second act to make room for another visitor—they buzzed all over the place—and when I rejoined my friend she was primed with rectifications.
'He isn't Lord Yarracome at all. He's only Mr. Beston.'
I fairly jumped; I see, as I now think, that it was as if I had read the future in a flash of lightning. 'Only ——— ? The mighty editor?'
'Yes, of the celebrated Cynosure.' My interlocutress was determined this time not to be at fault. 'He's always at first nights.'
'What a chance for me, then.' I replied, 'to judge of my particular fate!'
'Does that depend on Mr. Beston?' she inquired; on which I again borrowed her glass and went deeper into the subject.
'Well, my literary fortune does. I sent him a fortnight ago the best thing I've ever done. I've not as yet had a sign from him, but I can perhaps make out in his face, in the light of his type and expression, some little portent or promise.' I did my best, but when after a minute my companion asked what I discovered I was obliged to answer 'Nothing!' The next moment I added: 'He won't take it.'
'Oh, I hope so!'
'That's just what I've been doing.' I gave back the glass. 'Such a face is an abyss.'
'Don't you think it handsome?'
'Glorious. Gorgeous. Immense. Oh, I'm lost! What does Miss Delavoy think of it?' I then articulated.
'Can't you see?' My companion used her glass. 'She's
