The model-stand had been pushed to one end of the room fronting the audience; heavy curtains had been drawn across the big north window, leaving the place in semi-darkness; there was the hissing and sputtering of a lime-light in the gallery, causing inquisitive people to turn their heads and see what it was.
Marsten stood against the wall beside another man, who said to him in a weary tone:
“Who is this man, Barnard Hope?”
“He is an artist,” answered Marsten, astonished that one guest should question a stranger regarding their mutual host.
“Evidently,” replied the other “But who are his people, or has he any?
“His father is one of the richest manufacturers in London.”
“Egad, I was sure of it. I knew there was a shop somewhere in the background, the fellow is so beastly civil.”
Conversation was here interrupted by a figure leaping on the model-stand, while at the same instant a blinding white light was thrown from the gallery upon it. There was a ripple of applause and the Earl, a beardless youth of perhaps twenty, bowed. He looked like a girl in his clinging fluted skirts. He was a scion of an ancient noble family, founded by an affectionate dancer of the opposite sex in the reign of the second Charles, and it was quite in the regular order of things that there should be a recrudescence of terpsichorean ability in the latest member of the house.
The white light changed to red and the skirt dance began. As it went on it was received with tumultuous applause, for a London audience is always easy to please, especially when there is no charge for admission at the doors. Still it must be admitted that the sprightly little Earl deserved the warmth of his reception, for his exhibition was a model of grace and agility, while his manipulation of the voluminous skirts left little to be desired. The variegated colours thrown on the fluttering whirling drapery gave a weird unearthly effect to the rapid movements of his Grace, and the grand finale, where a crimson light was flung upon the flimsy silk waving high above the dancer’s head, gave the agile young nobleman the appearance of one of the early martyrs wrapped in flames.
The curtains were drawn back, the entranced assemblage rose to its feet, and, gathering about the host, congratulated him upon the success of his afternoon. Barney received these felicitations with exuberant gratification, and the young Earl, finally emerging from behind the scenes, clothed and in his right mind, but a trifle breathless, accepted modestly his well-earned share of the compliments, for, let cynics say what they will, true merit is always sure of appreciation in the great city.