“Certainly,” Tavernake promised, with a sinking premonition of what was to come.

“What I complain of,” the professor began, speaking with elaborate and impressive slowness, “is that my performance is hurried over and that too long a time is taken up by Beatrice’s songs.  The management remark upon the applause which her efforts occasionally ensure, but, as I would point out to you, sir,” he continued, “a performance such as mine makes too deep an impression for the audience to show their appreciation of it by such vulgar methods as hand-clapping and whistling.  You follow me, I trust, Mr. Tavernake?”

Why, yes, of course,” Tavernake admitted.

“I take a sincere and earnest interest in my work,” the professor declared, “and I feel that when it has to be scamped that my daughter may sing a music-hall ditty, the result is, to say the least of it, undignified.  For some reason or other, I have been unable to induce the management to see entirely with me, but my point is that Beatrice should sing one song only, and that the additional ten minutes should be occupied by me in either a further exposition of my extraordinary powers as a hypnotist, or in a little address to the audience upon the hidden sciences.  Now I appeal to you, Mr. Tavernake, as a young man of common sense.  What is your opinion?”

Tavernake, much too honest to be capable in a general way of duplicity, was on the point of giving it, but he caught Beatrice’s imploring gaze.  Her lips were moving.  He hesitated.

“Of course,” he began, slowly, “you have to try and put yourself into the position of the major part of the audience, who are exceedingly uneducated people.  It is very hard to give an opinion, Professor.  I must say that your entertainment this evening was listened to with rapt interest.”

The professor turned solemnly towards his daughter.

“You hear that, Beatrice?” he said severely.  “You hear what Mr. Tavernake says?  ‘With rapt interest!’”

“At the same time,” Tavernake went on, “without a doubt Miss Beatrice’s songs were also extremely popular.  It is rather a pity that the management could not give you a little more time.”

“Failing that, sir,” the professor declared, “my point is, as I explained before, that Beatrice should give up one of her songs.  What you have said this evening more than ever confirms me in my view.”

Beatrice smiled thankfully at Tavernake.

“Well,” she suggested, “at any rate we will leave it for the present.  Sometimes I think, though, father, that you frighten them with some of your work, and you must remember that they come to be amused.”

“That,” the professor admitted, “is the most sensible remark you have made, Beatrice.  There is indeed something terrifying in some of my manifestations, terrifying even to myself, who understand so thoroughly my subject.  However, as you say, we will dismiss the matter for the present.  The thought of this supper party is a pleasant one.  Do you remember, Mr. Tavernake, the night when you and I met in the balcony at Imano’s?”