It was an amazingly complete turnout, and it well deserved all the

attention it attracted, which was considerable. The horses were

capricious, highly polished grays, perhaps a trifle undersized, but

with such an action as is not to be bought for less than twenty-five

guineas a hoof; the harness was silver-mounted; the dog-cart itself a

creation of beauty and nice poise; the groom a pink and priceless

perfection. But the crown and summit of the work was the driver--a

youngish gentleman who, from the gloss of his peculiarly shaped collar

to the buttons of his diminutive boots, exuded an atmosphere of

expense. His gloves, his scarf-pin, his watch-chain, his mustache, his

eye-glass, the crease in his nether garments, the cut of his

coat-tails, the curves of his hat--all uttered with one accord the

final word of fashion, left nothing else to be said. The correctness

of Keith Prowse's clerk was as naught to his correctness. He looked as

if he had emerged immaculate from the outfitter's boudoir, an

achievement the pride of Bond Street.

As this marvellous creature stood up and prepared to alight from the

vehicle, he chanced to turn his eye-glass in my direction. He scanned

me carelessly, glanced away, and scanned me again with a less detached

stare. And I, on my part, felt the awakening of a memory.

"That's my cousin Sullivan," I said to myself. "I wonder if he wants

to be friends."

Our eyes coquetted. I put one foot into the roadway, withdrew it,

restored it to the roadway, and then crossed the street.

It was indeed the celebrated Sullivan Smith, composer of those so

successful musical comedies, "The Japanese Cat," "The Arabian Girl,"

and "My Queen." And he condescended to recognize me! His gestures

indicated, in fact, a warm desire to be cousinly. I reached him. The

moment was historic. While the groom held the wheeler's head, and the

twin menials assisted with dignified inactivity, we shook hands.

"How long is it?" he said.

"Fifteen years--about," I answered, feeling deliciously old.

"Remember I punched your head?"

"Rather!" (Somehow I was proud that he had punched my head.) "No credit to me," he added magnanimously, "seeing I was years older

than you and a foot or so taller. By the way, Carl, how old did you

say you were?"

He regarded me as a sixth-form boy might regard a fourth-form boy.

"I didn't say I was any age," I replied. "But I'm twenty-three."

"Well, then, you're quite old enough to have a drink. Come into the

club and partake of a gin-and-angostura, old man. I'll clear all this

away."

He pointed to the equipage, the horses, and the groom, and with an

apparently magic word whispered into the groom's ear he did in fact

clear them away. They rattled and jingled off in the direction of

Leicester Square, while Sullivan muttered observations on the groom's

driving.




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