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crowd whose component units seemed for the most part to recognise

the probability that they were quite as interesting as any play



they were likely to see. Those who bore no particular face-value

themselves derived a certain amount of social dignity from the near



neighbourhood of obvious notabilities; if one could not obtain

recognition oneself there was some vague pleasure in being able to



recognise notoriety at intimately close quarters.

"Who is that woman with the auburn hair and a rather effective



belligerent gleam in her eyes?" asked a man sitting just behind

Comus; "she looks as if she might have created the world in six



days and destroyed it on the seventh."

"I forget her name," said his neighbour; "she writes. She's the



author of that book, 'The Woman who wished it was Wednesday,' you

know. It used to be the convention that women writers should be



plain and dowdy; now we have gone to the other extreme and build

them on extravagantly decorative lines."



A buzz of recognition came from the front rows of the pit, together

with a craning of necks on the part of those in less favoured



seats. It heralded the arrival of Sherard Blaw, the dramatist who

had discovered himself, and who had given so ungrudgingly of his



discovery to the world. Lady Caroline, who was already directing

little conversational onslaughts from her box, gazed gently for a



moment at the new arrival, and then turned to the silver-haired

Archdeacon sitting beside her.



"They say the poor man is haunted by the fear that he will die

during a general election, and that his obituary notices will be



seriously curtailed by the space taken up by the election results.

The curse of our party system, from his point of view, is that it



takes up so much room in the press."

The Archdeacon smiled indulgently. As a man he was so exquisitely



worldly that he fully merited the name of the Heavenly Worldling

bestowed on him by an admiring duchess, and withal his texture was



shot with a pattern of such genuine saintliness that one felt that

whoever else might hold the keys of Paradise he, at least,



possessed a private latchkey to that abode.

"Is it not significant of the altered grouping of things," he



observed, "that the Church, as represented by me, sympathises with

the message of Sherard Blaw, while neither the man nor his message



find acceptance with unbelievers like you, Lady Caroline."

Lady Caroline blinked her eyes. "My dear Archdeacon," she said,



"no one can be an unbeliever nowadays. The Christian Apologists

have left one nothing to disbelieve."



The Archdeacon rose with a delightedchuckle. "I must go and tell

that to De la Poulett," he said, indicating a clerical figure



sitting in the third row of the stalls; "he spends his life

explaining from his pulpit that the glory of Christianity consists



in the fact that though it is not true it has been found necessary

to invent it."



The door of the box opened and Courtenay Youghal entered, bringing

with him subtle suggestion of chaminade and an atmosphere of



political tension. The Government had fallen out of the good

graces of a section of its supporters, and those who were not in



the know were busy predicting a serious crisis over a forthcoming

division in the Committee stage of an important Bill. This was



Saturday night, and unless some successful cajolery were effected

between now and Monday afternoon, Ministers would be, seemingly, in



danger of defeat.

"Ah, here is Youghal," said the Archdeacon; "he will be able to



tell us what is going to happen in the next forty-eight hours. I

hear the Prime Minister says it is a matter of conscience, and they



will stand or fall by it."

His hopes and sympathies were notoriously on the Ministerial side.






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