Of course it was up to Mr. Philip, as a man of birth and education to have a word or two to say. But unluckily for him, in the stress of his laudable ambition, he suddenly slipped his bridle, and waltzed right into the conversation.
It was not so much lack of tact as the act of destiny. He could be as tactful as another previous to attending this ill-fated matinée at Drury Lane; but since that tragic action he was merely one more tempest-tossed mortal—for all the soigné look he had—in the grim toils of fate.
"I wish you had come, Adela, really," said the vain young man. "There was a girl there playing Cinderella!"
"How interesting," said the good old Mater.
Adela nibbled a salted almond pensively.
"Absolute nailer," said Mr. Philip.
"How very interesting. And Busoni's first piece was the overture to the polonaise by Chopin—quite classical, of course, but so full of verve and charm."
"Her name is Mary Caspar, and Teddy Clapham hadn't heard of her before."
"What a strain it must be for those poor professionals. It made one quite ill to watch Busoni. Poor man got so excited, but a polonaise in such a difficult form of music, one understands."
"'Nelson and his Boys in Blue' was absolutely rip-
