“Oh, splendid,” cried Ruby.  “Oh, I wish you’d do it to this company.”

The boisterous Canadian, Mr. Blount, was lifting his loud voice in applause, and the astonished financier his (in some considerable deprecation), when a knock sounded at the double front doors.  The priest opened them, and they showed again the front garden of evergreens, monkey-tree and all, now gathering gloom against a gorgeous violet sunset.  The scene thus framed was so coloured and quaint, like a back scene in a play, that they forgot a moment the insignificant figure standing in the door.  He was dusty-looking and in a frayed coat, evidently a common messenger.  “Any of you gentlemen Mr. Blount?” he asked, and held forward a letter doubtfully.  Mr. Blount started, and stopped in his shout of assent.  Ripping up the envelope with evident astonishment he read it; his face clouded a little, and then cleared, and he turned to his brother-in-law and host.

“I’m sick at being such a nuisance, colonel,” he said, with the cheery colonial conventions; “but would it upset you if an old acquaintance called on me here tonight on business?  In point of fact it’s Florian, that famous French acrobat and comic actor; I knew him years ago out West (he was a French-Canadian by birth), and he seems to have business for me, though I hardly guess what.”

“Of course, of course,” replied the colonel carelessly—­“My dear chap, any friend of yours.  No doubt he will prove an acquisition.”

“He’ll black his face, if that’s what you mean,” cried Blount, laughing.  “I don’t doubt he’d black everyone else’s eyes.  I don’t care; I’m not refined.  I like the jolly old pantomime where a man sits on his top hat.”

“Not on mine, please,” said Sir Leopold Fischer, with dignity.

“Well, well,” observed Crook, airily, “don’t let’s quarrel.  There are lower jokes than sitting on a top hat.”

Dislike of the red-tied youth, born of his predatory opinions and evident intimacy with the pretty godchild, led Fischer to say, in his most sarcastic, magisterial manner:  “No doubt you have found something much lower than sitting on a top hat.  What is it, pray?”

“Letting a top hat sit on you, for instance,” said the Socialist.

“Now, now, now,” cried the Canadian farmer with his barbarian benevolence, “don’t let’s spoil a jolly evening.  What I say is, let’s do something for the company tonight.  Not blacking faces or sitting on hats, if you don’t like those—­but something of the sort.  Why couldn’t we have a proper old English pantomime—­ clown, columbine, and so on.  I saw one when I left England at twelve years old, and it’s blazed in my brain like a bonfire ever since.  I came back to the old country only last year, and I find the thing’s extinct.  Nothing but a lot of snivelling fairy plays.  I want a hot poker and a policeman made into sausages, and they give me princesses moralising by moonlight, Blue Birds, or something.  Blue Beard’s more in my line, and him I like best when he turned into the pantaloon.”