of that excitement. Peter explained that this was exactly the sad subject of his actual démarche: the project of the dinner in Calcutta Gardens had, to his exceeding regret, fallen to pieces. The fact was (didn't Nick know it?) the night had been suddenly and perversely fixed for Miriam's premiere, and he was under a definite engagement with her not to stay away from it. To add to the bore of the thing he was obliged to return to Paris the very next morning. He was quite awfully sorry, for he had promised Lady Agnes: he didn't understand then about Miriam's affair, in regard to which he had given a previous pledge. He was more sorry than he could say, but he could never fail Miss Rooth: he had professed from the first an interest in her which he must live up to a little more. This was his last chance—he hadn't been near her at the trying time she first produced herself. And the second night of the play wouldn't do—it must be the first or nothing. Besides, he couldn't wait over till Monday.
While Peter enumerated these complications his companion was occupied in polishing with a cloth a palette that he had just been scraping. "I see what you mean—I'm very sorry too," said Nick. "I'm sorry you can't give my mother this joy—I give her so little."
"My dear fellow, you might give her a little more. It's rather too much to expect me to make up for your omissions!"
Nick looked at Peter with a moment's fixedness while he rubbed his palette; and for that moment he felt the temptation to reply: "There's a way you could do that, to a considerable extent—I think you guess it!—which wouldn't be intrinsically disagreeable." But the impulse passed, without expressing
