The enthusiasm that was caused by her song and behavior would be vain to describe.
"Chap's a genius," said Father. "Who is he?"
"Wilkie Bard, of course," said Uncle Phil.
"Has anybody here seen Kelly?" inquired the old lady. It appeared that every single person there, including the occupants of Box B, either had seen or hoped to see Kelly.
And then quite suddenly the lights went out, the orchestra rolled in semi-darkness, something happened to the scenery, the lights went up again, and there was a kitchen in the ancestral halls of Baron de No-Cash.
Again crowed the Babe with pleasure, and he had a perfect right to do so; because it was really a remarkable sort of a kitchen, larger by far than the one in Eaton Place where cook kept the marmalade; though, doubtless, what most intrigued the fancy of the Babe was the enormous fireplace which had accommodation for a turnspit and at least twenty-four persons.
In the temporary absence of any single human individual the turnspit had the stage all to itself. This was a subtle device on the part of the management. An air of rapt expectation enfolded the great audience, as of something going to happen.
And something did.
A perfect roar of enthusiasm heralded the happen-
