“What’s up?” said Kitty.

“Kitty, that little man in there—­he’s written the most beautiful play.  It’s so terribly sad.”

“What, the play?”

“No, the little man.  It’s a classic, Kitty—­it’ll live.”

“Then I’m sure you needn’t pity him.  Let’s have a look at the thing.”  Miss Palliser dipped into the manuscript, and was lost.

“By Jove,” she said, “it does look ripping.  Where does the sadness come in?”

“He thinks he’ll never write another.”

“Well, perhaps he won’t.”

“He will—­think of it—­he’s a genius, the real thing, this time.  Only—­he has to stand behind a counter and make catalogues.”

Miss Palliser meditated.  “Does he—­does he by any chance drop his aitches?”

“Kitty, he does.”

“Then Lucy, dear child, beware, beware, his flashing eyes, his floating hair—­”

“Don’t.  That little man is on my mind.”

“I shouldn’t let him stop there too long, if I were you.  He might refuse to get on.”

“I must do something for him, and I must do it now.  What can I do?”

“Not much, I imagine.”

“I—­I think I’ll ask him to dinner.”

“I wouldn’t.  You said he drops his aitches.  Weave,” said Miss Palliser, “a circle round him thrice, and close your eyes with holy dread, but whatever you do, don’t ask him to dinner.”

“Why not?”

“Because ten to one it would make him most horribly uncomfortable.  Not that that matters so much.  But wouldn’t the faithful Robert think it a little odd?”

“Robert is too faithful to think anything at all.”

“I’m not so sure of that.  Personally, I wish you would ask him to dinner—­I seem to foresee a certain amount of amusing incident.”

“Well, I don’t think I will ask him—­to dinner.  Perhaps he wouldn’t enjoy it.  But as I’ve got to talk over his play with him, I should like to ask him to something.”

“Ask him to coffee afterwards.”

“Coffee hardly seems enough.”

“It depends.  Serve it festively—­on a table, and pour it out yourself.  Offer him strange and bewitching forms of food.  Comfort him with—­with angel cake—­and savoury sandwiches and bread and butter.”

“I see—­a sort of compromise?”

“Exactly.  Society, my child, is based on compromise.”

“Very well, then, I’ll write him a note.”

She wrote it, and sent Robert with it to the library.

“I suppose,” said she, “it’s about time to dress for dinner?”

“Don’t make yourself too pretty, dear.”

Lucia looked back through the doorway.

“I shall make myself as pretty as ever I can.  He has had nothing but ugly things to look at all his life.”

Miss Palliser apostrophized the departing figure of her friend.

“Oh Lucy, Lucy, what an angelic little fool you are!”