“And your sister Lilian?”

“She’s keeping house for Jem.”

“Pretty girl, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” I said doubtfully.  “Sings well, too.”

“So you cultivate music down there?”

“Rather!” I said.  “That is, Lilian does, and I do when I’m with her.  We’re pretty mad on it.  I was dead set on hearing Rosetta Rosa in ‘Lohengrin’ to-night, but there isn’t a seat to be had.  I suppose I shall push myself into the gallery.”

“No, you won’t,” Sullivan put in sharply.  “I’ve got a box.  There’ll be a chair for you.  You’ll see my wife.  I should never have dreamt of going.  Wagner bores me, though I must say I’ve got a few tips from him.  But when we heard what a rush there was for seats Emmeline thought we ought to go, and I never cross her if I can help it.  I made Smart give us a box.”

“I shall be delighted to come,” I said.  “There’s only one Smart, I suppose?  You mean Sir Cyril?”

“The same, my boy.  Lessee of the Opera, lessee of the Diana, lessee of the Folly, lessee of the Ottoman.  If any one knows the color of his cheques I reckon it’s me.  He made me—­that I will say; but I made him, too.  Queer fellow!  Awfully cute of him to get elected to the County Council.  It was through him I met my wife.  Did you ever see Emmeline when she was Sissie Vox?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“You missed a treat, old man.  There was no one to touch her in boys’ parts in burlesque.  A dashed fine woman she is—­though I say it, dashed fine!” He seemed to reflect a moment.  “She’s a spiritualist.  I wish she wasn’t.  Spiritualism gets on her nerves.  I’ve no use for it myself, but it’s her life.  It gives her fancies.  She got some sort of a silly notion—­don’t tell her I said this, Carlie—­about Rosetta Rosa.  Says she’s unlucky—­Rosa, I mean.  Wanted me to warn Smart against engaging her.  Me!  Imagine it!  Why, Rosa will be the making of this opera season!  She’s getting a terrific salary, Smart told me.”

“It’s awfully decent of you to offer me a seat,” I began to thank him.

“Stuff!” he said.  “Cost me nothing.”  A clock struck softly.  “Christopher! it’s half-past twelve, and I’m due at the Diana at twelve.  We’re rehearsing, you know.”

We went out of the club arm in arm, Sullivan toying with his eye-glass.

“Well, you’ll toddle round to-night, eh?  Just ask for my box.  You’ll find they’ll look after you.  So long!”

He walked off.

“I say,” he cried, returning hastily on his steps, and lowering his voice, “when you meet my wife, don’t say anything about her theatrical career.  She don’t like it.  She’s a great lady now.  See?”

“Why, of course!” I agreed.

He slapped me on the back and departed.

It is easy to laugh at Sullivan.  I could see that even then—­perhaps more clearly then than now.  But I insist that he was lovable.  He had little directly to do with my immense adventure, but without him it could not have happened.  And so I place him in the forefront of the narrative.