interested.'

'Ah,' said the English author benignly, 'it is satisfactory to hear
that. Of course, the great difference between there and here is that
in New York one impresses: in London one is impressed.'

An ominous silence followed this epigrammatic wisdom (which Dunckley
had just heard from the lips of a poet who had succeeded in writing
both an American and an English publishing house into bankruptcy) while
the various members of the group pursued their trains of thought along
the devious routes of their different mentalities.

'Dear me!' said Lady Durwent anxiously, 'what _can_ have detained'----

'MR. JOHNSTON SMYTH.'

With a jerky action of the knees, the futurist briskly entered the room
with all the easy confidence of a famous comedian following on the
heels of a chorus announcing his arrival. He looked particularly long
and cadaverous in an abrupt, sporting-artistic, blue jacket, with
sleeves so short that when he waved his arms (which he did with almost
every sentence) he reminded one of a juggler requesting his audience to
notice that he has absolutely nothing up his sleeves.

'Lady Durwent,' he exclaimed, striking an attitude and looking over his
Cyrano-like nose with his right eye as if he were aligning the sights
of a musket, 'don't tell me I'm late. If you do, I shall never speak
to the Duke of Earldub again--never!'

As he refused to move an inch until assured that he was not late, and