The two ladies looked up, and turned to find Lancaster standing before them, with his hat off and a look of amused surprise on his face.
"Well," said Mrs. Stewart, shaking hands heartily, "the world is small as ever, is it not? It's like home, seeing you!"
"It strikes me the same way." He sat down beside them. They noticed that he was browned and furrowed; the marks of travel, the brace of different climes, the scars caught in the thick of life's battle were all sharply dominant in his externals.
"We ought to feel honored," smiled Miss Leigh. "You are such a celebrity nowadays! We have heard the most weird anecdotes about you of late, you know. You are pictured as the Sphinx and the Chimera in one."
"You are still," he answered, "as cruel as ever."
"But we really feel very proud of you," said Mrs. Stewart. "We know each other too well, I hope, to veil our honest opinions. I admire your work immensely; but I think you're terribly bitter sometimes."
"Ah," he laughed gently, "I'm glad it strikes you that way. Bitterness is the only taste that lives after a complete course of life. But we really must talk of something less embarassing than myself. Do tell me the news! How are all the dear familiars?" He paused, and lowered his voice a little. "If it pains you," he said gently, "let us talk of other things. I—have heard. Believe me, I am sorry, very sorry. It is a poor word, but—" he stopped as she looked up at him gratefully for an instant, and then said with an effort at cheerfulness:
"Oh, they were all well, when we left."
"Yes," put in Miss Leigh, "and doing about the same old things. Mr. Wreath still expounds, in and out of season, the doctrine of his own surpassingly correct theories on veritism in literature; and incidentally takes all occasions to assail the sincerity of every other living writer. He's an amusing man, and if he had only been given a sense of honor he would find himself an ever re-direct jest. Clarence Miller has written another novel, and all society is wondering whether it will be translated into Magyar or Mongolian. He calls it 'Five Loaves and Two Fishes.' His brother-in-law has composed another comic opera that some people have the originality to declare original. And—but why continue the catalogue? It's just the same ridiculous circus it ever was."
Lancaster laughed. "Thank you. That's really a volume in a nutshell. I wonder if the performers in that circus really know how amusing they are?"