When Henry had seceded¹ from Powells, and had begun to devote several dignified² hours a day to the excogitation of a theme for his new novel, and the triumph of A Question of Cubits was at its height, he thought that there ought to be some change in his secret self to correspond with the change in his circumstances. But he could perceive none, except, perhaps, that now and then he was visited by the feeling that he had a great mission in the world. That feeling, however, came rarely, and, for the most part, he existed in a state of not being quite able to comprehend exactly how and why his stories roused the enthusiasm of an immense public.  
In essentials he remained the same Henry, and the sameness of his simple self was never more apparent to him than when he got out of a cab one foggy Wednesday night in November, and rang at the Grecian portico³ of Mrs. Ashton Portway's house in Lowndes Square. A crimson⁴ cloth covered the footpath⁵. This was his first entry into the truly great world, and though he was perfectly⁶ aware that as a lion he could not easily be surpassed in no matter what menagerie, his nervousness and timidity were so acute as to be painful; they annoyed him, in fact. When, in the wide hall, a servant respectfully but firmly closed the door after him, thus cutting off a possible retreat to the homely⁸ society of the cabman, he became resigned, careless, reckless, desperate, as who should say, 'Now I have done it!' And as at the Louvre, so at Mrs. Ashton Portway's, his outer garments were taken forcibly from him, and a ticket given to him in exchange. The ticket startled him, especially as he saw no notice on the walls that the management would not be responsible for articles not deposited in the cloakroom. Nobody inquired about his identity, and without further ritual he was asked to ascend⁹ towards regions whence came the faint sound of music. At the top of the stairs a young and handsome man, faultless alike in costume and in manners, suavely¹⁰ accosted¹¹ him.
 
'What name, sir?'
 
'Knight¹²,' said Henry gruffly. The young man thought that Henry was on the point of losing his temper from some cause or causes unknown, whereas Henry was merely timid.
 
Then the music ceased, and was succeeded by violent chatter¹³; the young man threw open a door, and announced in loud clear tones, which Henry deemed ridiculously loud and ridiculously clear:
 
'Mr. Knight!'
 
Henry saw a vast apartment full of women's shoulders and black patches of masculinity; the violent chatter died into a profound silence; every face was turned towards him. He nearly fell down dead on the doormat, and then, remembering that life was after all sweet, he plunged¹⁴ into the room as into the sea.
 
When he came up breathless and spluttering, Mrs. Ashton Portway (in black and silver) was introducing him to her husband, Mr. Ashton Portway, known to a small circle of readers as Raymond Quick, the author of several mild novels issued at his own expense. Mr. Portway was rich in money and in his wife; he had inherited the money, and his literary instincts had discovered the wife in a publisher's daughter. The union had not been blessed with children, which was fortunate, since Mrs. Portway was left free to devote the whole of her time to the encouragement of literary talent in the most unliterary of cities.
 
Henry rather liked Mr. Ashton Portway, whose small black eyes seemed to say: 'That's all right, my friend. I share your ideas fully⁷. When you want a quiet whisky, come to me.'
 
'And what have you been doing this dark day?' Mrs. Ashton Portway began, with her snigger.
 
'Well,' said Henry, 'I dropped into the National Gallery this afternoon, but really it was so——'
 
'The National Gallery?' exclaimed Mrs. Ashton Portway swiftly. 'I must introduce you to Miss Marchrose, the author of that charming hand-book to Pictures in London. Miss Marchrose,' she called out, urging Henry towards a corner of the room, 'this is Mr. Knight.' She sniggered on the name. 'He's just dropped into the National Gallery.'
 
Then Mrs. Ashton Portway sailed off to receive other guests, and Henry was alone with Miss Marchrose in a nook between a cabinet and a phonograph. Many eyes were upon them. Miss Marchrose, a woman of thirty, with a thin face and an amorphous¹⁵ body draped in two shades of olive, was obviously flattered.
 
'Be frank, and admit you've never heard of me,' she said.
 
'Oh yes, I have,' he lied.
 
'Do you often go to the National Gallery, Mr. Knight?'
 
'Not as often as I ought.'
 
Pause.
 
Several observant women began to think that Miss Marchrose was not making the best of Henry—that, indeed, she had proved unworthy of an unmerited honour.
 
'I sometimes think——' Miss Marchrose essayed.
 
But a young lady got up in the middle of the room, and with extraordinary self-command and presence of mind began to recite Wordsworth's 'The Brothers.' She continued to recite and recite until she had finished it, and then sat down amid universal joy.
 
 
'Matthew Arnold said that was the greatest poem of the century,' remarked a man near the phonograph.
 
'You'll pardon me,' said Miss Marchrose, turning to him. 'If you are thinking of Matthew Arnold's introduction to the selected poems, you'll and——'
 
'My dear,' said Mrs. Ashton Portway, suddenly looming¹⁶ up opposite the reciter, 'what a memory you have!'
 
'Was it so long, then?' murmured a tall man with spectacles and a light wavy¹⁷ beard.
 
'I shall send you back to Paris, Mr. Dolbiac,' said Mrs. Ashton Portway, 'if you are too witty¹⁸.' The hostess smiled and sniggered, but it was generally felt that Mr. Dolbiac's remark had not been in the best taste.
 
For a few moments Henry was alone and uncared for, and he examined his surroundings. His first conclusion was that there was not a pretty woman in the room, and his second, that this fact had not escaped the notice of several other men who were hanging about in corners. Then Mrs. Ashton Portway, having accomplished¹⁹ the task of receiving, beckoned²⁰ him, and intimated to him that, being a lion and the king of beasts, he must roar. 'I think everyone here has done something,' she said as she took him round and forced him to roar. His roaring was a miserable²¹ fiasco, but most people mistook it for the latest fashion in roaring, and were impressed.
 
'Now you must take someone down to get something to eat,' she apprised²² him, when he had growled²³ out soft nothings to poetesses, paragraphists, publicists, positivists, penny-a-liners, and other pale persons. 'Whom shall it be?—Ashton! What have you done?'
 
The phonograph had been advertised to give a reproduction of Ternina in the Liebestod from Tristan und Isolde, but instead it broke into the 'Washington Post,' and the room, braced²⁴ to a great occasion, was horrified²⁵. Mrs. Portway, abandoning Henry, ran to silence the disastrous²⁶ consequence of her husband's clumsiness. Henry, perhaps impelled

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