The reception pleased Mr. Prohack as a spectacle, and it cost him almost no trouble.  He announced his decision that it must cost him no trouble, and everybody in the house, and a few people outside it, took him at his word-which did not wholly gratify him.  Indeed the family and its connections seemed to be conspiring to give him a life of ease.  Responsibilities were lifted from him.  He did not even miss his secretary.  Sissie, who returned home-by a curious coincidence-on the very day that Mimi Winstock was transferred to Charlie’s service in the Grand Babylon, performed what she called ‘secretarial stunts’ for her father as and when required.  On the afternoon of the reception, which was timed to begin at 9 p.m., he had an attack of fright, but, by a process well known to public executants, it passed off long before it could develop into stage-fright; and he was quite at ease at 9 p.m.

The first arrivals came at nine thirty.  He stood by Eve and greeted them; and he had greeted about twenty individuals when he yawned (for a good reason) and Eve said to him: 

“You needn’t stay here, you know.  Go and amuse yourself.” (This suggestion followed the advent of Lady Massulam.)

He didn’t stay.  Ozzie Morfey and Sissie supplanted him.  At a quarter to eleven he was in the glazed conservatory built over the monumental portico, with Sir Paul Spinner.  He could see down into the Square, which was filled with the splendid and numerous automobiles incident to his wife’s reception.  Guests-and not the least important among them-were still arriving.  Cars rolled up to the portico, gorgeous women and plain men jumped out on to the red cloth, of which he could just see the extremity near the kerb, and vanished under him, and the cars hid themselves away in the depths of the Square.  Looking within his home he admired the vista of brilliantly illuminated rooms, full of gilt chairs, priceless furniture, and extremely courageous toilettes.  For, as the reception was ‘to meet the Committee of the League of all the Arts.’  (Ozzie had placed many copies of the explanatory pamphlet on various tables), artists of all kinds and degrees abounded, and the bourgeois world (which chiefly owned the automobiles) thought proper to be sartorially as improper as fashion would allow; and fashion allowed quite a lot.  The affair might have been described as a study in shoulder-blades.  It was a very great show, and Mr. Prohack appreciated all of it, the women, the men, the lionesses, the lions, the kaleidoscope of them, the lights, the reflections in the mirrors and in the waxed floors, the discreetly hidden music, the grandiose buffet, the efficient valetry.  He soon got used to not recognising, and not being recognised by, the visitors to his own house.  True, he could not conceive that the affair would serve any purpose but one,-namely the purpose of affording innocent and expensive pleasure to his wife.

“You’ve hit on a pretty good sort of a place here,” grunted Sir Paul Spinner, whose waistcoat buttons were surpassed in splendour only by his carbuncles.

“Well,” said Mr. Prohack, “to me, living here is rather like being on the stage all the time.  It’s not real.”

“What the deuce do you mean, it’s not real?  There aren’t twenty houses in London with a finer collection of genuine bibelots than you have here.”

“Yes, but they aren’t mine, and I didn’t choose them or arrange them.”

“What does that matter?  You can look at them and enjoy the sight of them.  Nobody can do more.”

“Paul, you’re talking neo-conventional nonsense again.  Have you ever in your career as a city man stood outside a money-changer’s and looked at the fine collection of genuine banknotes in the window?  Supposing I told you that you could look at them and enjoy the sight of them, and nobody could do more?...  No, my boy, to enjoy a thing properly you’ve got to own it.  And anybody who says the contrary is probably a member of the League of all the Arts.”  He gave another enormous yawn.  “Excuse my yawning, Paul, but this house is a perfect Inferno for me.  The church of St. Nicodemus is hard by, and the church of St. Nicodemus has a striking clock, and the clock strikes all the hours and all the quarters on a half cracked bell or two bells.  If I am asleep every hour wakes me up, and most of the quarters.  The clock strikes not only the hours and the quarters but me.  I regulate my life by that clock.  If I’m beginning to repose at ten minutes to the hour, I say to myself that I must wait till the hour before really beginning, and I do wait.  It is killing me, and nobody can see that it is killing me.  The clock annoys some individuals a little occasionally; they curse, and then go to sleep and stay asleep.  For them the clock is a nuisance; but for me it’s an assassination.  However, I can’t make too much fuss.  Several thousands of people must live within sound of the St. Nicodemus clock; yet the rector has not been murdered nor the church razed to the ground.  Hence the clock doesn’t really upset many people.  And there are hundreds of such infernal clocks in London, and they all survive.  It follows therefore that I am peculiar.  Nobody has a right to be peculiar.  Hence I do not complain.  I suffer.  I’ve tried stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, and stuffing the windows of my bedroom with eiderdowns.  No use.  I’ve tried véronal.  No use either.  The only remedy would be for me to give the house up.  Which would he absurd.  My wife soothes me and says that of course I shall get used to the clock.  I shall never get used to it.  Lately she has ceased even to mention the clock.  My daughter thinks I am becoming a grumbler in my latter years.  My son smiles indifferently.  I admit that my son’s secretary is more sympathetic.  Like most people who are both idle and short of sleep, I usually look very well, spry and wideawake.  My friends remark on my healthy appearance.  You did.  The popular mind cannot conceive that I am merely helplessly waiting for death to put me out of my misery; but so it is.  There must be quite a few others in the same fix as me in London, dying because rectors and other clergymen and officials insist on telling them the time all through the night.  But they suffer in silence as I do.  As I do, they see the uselessness of a fuss.”

“You will get used to it, Arthur,” said Sir Paul indulgently but not unironically, at the end of Mr. Prohack’s disquisition.  “You’re in a nervous state and your judgment’s warped.  Now, I never even heard your famous clock strike ten.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Paul!  And my judgment’s warped, is it?” There was irritation in Mr. Prohack’s voice.  He took out his watch.  “In sixty or seventy seconds you shall hear that clock strike eleven, and you shall give me your honest views about it.  And you shall apologise to me.”

Sir Paul obediently and sympathetically listened, while the murmur of the glowing reception and the low beat of music continued within.

“You tell me when it starts to strike,” said he.

“You won’t want any telling,” said Mr. Prohack, who knew too well the riving, rending, smashing sound of the terrible bells.

“It’s a pretty long seventy seconds,” observed Sir Paul.

“My watch must be fast,” said Mr. Prohack, perturbed.

But at eighteen minutes past eleven the clock had audibly struck neither the hour nor the quarter.  Sir Paul was a man of tact.  He said simply: 

“I should like a drink, dear old boy.”

“The clock’s not striking,” said Mr. Prohack, with solemn joy, as the wonderful truth presented itself to him.  “Either it’s stopped, or they’ve cut off the striking attachment.”  And to one of the maids on the landing he said as they passed towards the buffet:  “Run out and see what time it is by the church clock, and come back and tell me, will you?” A few minutes later he was informed that the church clock showed half-past eleven.  The clock therefore was still going but had ceased to strike.  Mr. Prohack at once drank two glasses of champagne at the buffet, while Sir Paul had the customary whiskey.

“I say, old thing, I say!” Sir Paul protested.

“I shall sleep!” said Mr. Prohack in a loud, gay, triumphant voice.  He was a new man.

The reception now seemed to him far more superb than ever.  It was almost at its apogee.  All the gilt chairs were occupied; all the couches and fauteuils of the room were occupied, and certain delicious toilettes were even spread on rugs or on the bare, reflecting floors.  On every hand could be heard artistic discussions, serious and informed and yet lightsome in tone.  If it was not the real originality of jazz music that was being discussed, it was the sureness of the natural untaught taste of the denizens of the East End and South London, and if not that then the greatness of male revue artistes, and if not that then the need of a national theatre and of a minister of fine arts, and if not that then the sculptural quality of the best novels and the fictional quality of the best sculpture, and if not that then the influence on British life of the fox-trot, and if not that then the prospects of bringing modern poets home to the largest public by means of the board schools, and if not that then the evil effects of the twin great London institutions for teaching music upon the individualities of the young geniuses entrusted to them, and if not that the part played by the most earnest amateurs in the destruction of opera, and if not that the total eclipse of Beethoven, Brahms and Wagner since the efflorescence of the Russian Ballet.  And always there ran like a flame through the conversations the hot breath of a passionate intention to make Britain artistic in the eyes of the civilised world.

What especially pleased Mr. Prohack about the whole affair, as he moved to and fro seeking society now instead of avoiding it, was the perfect futility of the affair, save as it affected Eve’s reputation.  He perceived the beauty of costly futility, and he was struck again, when from afar he observed his wife’s conquering mien, by the fact that the reception did not exist for the League, but the League for the reception.  The reception was a real and a resplendent thing; nobody could deny it.  The League was a fog of gush.  The League would be dear at twopence half-penny.  The reception was cheap if it stood him in five hundred pounds.  Eve was an infant; Eve was pleased with gewgaws; but Eve had found herself and he was well content to pay five hundred pounds for the look on her ingenuous face.

“And nothing of this would have happened,” he thought, impressed by the wonders of life, “if in a foolish impulse of generosity I hadn’t once lent a hundred quid to that chap Angmering.”

He descried Lady Massulam in converse with a tall, stout and magnificently dressed gentleman, who bowed deeply and departed as Mr. Prohack approached.

“Who is your fat friend?” said Mr. Prohack.

“He’s from The Daily Picture....  But isn’t this rather a strange way of greeting a guest after so long a separation?  Do you know that I’m in your house and you haven’t shaken hands with me?”

There was a note of intimacy and of challenge in Lady Massulam’s demeanour that pleased Mr. Prohack immensely, and caused him to see that the romance of Frinton was neither factitious nor at an end.  He felt pleasantly, and even thrillingly, that they had something between them.

“Ah!” he returned, consciously exerting his charm.  “I thought you detested our English formality and horrible restraint.  Further, this isn’t my house; it’s my wife’s.”

“Your wife is wonderful!” said Lady Massulam, as though teaching him to appreciate his wife and indicating that she alone had the right thus to teach him,-the subtlest thing.  “I’ve never seen an evening better done-reussie.”

“She is rather wonderful,” Mr. Prohack admitted, his tone implying that while putting Lady Massulam in a class apart, he had wit enough to put his wife too in a class apart,-the subtlest thing.

“I quite expected to meet you again in Frinton,” said Lady Massulam simply.  “How abrupt you are in your methods!”

“Only when it’s a case of self-preservation,” Mr. Prohack responded, gazing at her with daring significance.

“I’m going to talk to Mrs. Prohack,” said Lady Massulam, rising.  But before she left him she murmured confidentially in his ear:  “Where’s your son?”

“Don’t know.  Why?’

“I don’t think he’s come yet.  I’m afraid the poor hoy’s affairs are not very bright.”

“I shall look after him,” said Mr. Prohack, grandly.  A qualm did pierce him at the sound of her words, but he would not be depressed.  He smiled serenely, self-confidently, and said to himself:  “I could look after forty Charleses.”

He watched his wife and his friend chatting together as equals in The Daily Picture.  Yes, Eve was wonderful, and but for sheer hazard he would never have known how wonderful she was capable of being.

“You’ve got a great show here to-night, old man,” said a low, mysterious voice at his side.  Mr. Softly Bishop was smiling down his nose and holding out his hand while looking at nothing but his nose.

“Hello, Bishop!” said Mr. Prohack, controlling a desire to add:  “I’d no idea you’d been invited!”

“Samples of every world-except the next,” said Mr. Softly Bishop.  “And now the theatrical contingent is arriving after its night’s work.”

“Do you know who that fellow is?” Mr. Prohack demanded, indicating a little man with the aspect of a prize-fighter who was imperially conveying to Mrs. Prohack that Mrs. Prohack was lucky to get him to her reception.

“Why!” replied Mr. Bishop.  “That’s the Napoleon of the stage.”

“Not Asprey Chown!”

“Asprey Chown.”

“Great Scott!” And Mr. Prohack laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Mere glee.  This is the crown of my career as a man of the world.”  He saw Mr. Asprey Chown give a careless brusque nod to Ozzie Morfey, and he laughed again.

“It’s rather comic, isn’t it?” Mr. Softly Bishop acquiesced.  “I wonder why Oswald Morfey has abandoned his famous stock for an ordinary necktie.”

“Probably because he’s going to be my son-in-law,” said Mr. Prohack.

“Ah!” ejaculated Mr. Softly Bishop.  “I congratulate him.”

Mr. Prohack looked grim in order to conceal his joy in the assurance that he would sleep that night, and in the sensations produced by the clear fact that Lady Massulam was still interested in him.  Somehow he wanted to dance, not with any woman, but by himself, a reel.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Mr. Softly Bishop.  “You are shining to-night.  Here’s Eliza Fiddle, and that’s her half-sister Miss Fancy behind her.”

And it was Eliza Fiddle, and the ageing artiste with her ravaged complexion and her defiant extra-vivacious mien created instantly an impression such as none but herself could have created.  The entire assemblage stared, murmuring its excitement, at the renowned creature.  Eliza loved the stare and the murmur.  She was like a fish dropped into water after a gasping spell in mere air.

“I admit I was in too much of a hurry when I spoke of having reached the zenith,” said Mr. Prohack.  “I’m only just getting there now.  And who’s the half-sister?”

“She’s not precisely unknown on the American stage,” answered Mr. Softly Bishop.  “But before we go any further I’d perhaps better tell you a secret.”  His voice and his gaze dropped still lower.  “She’s a particularly fine girl, and it won’t be my fault if I don’t marry her.  Not a word of course!  Mum!” He turned away, while Mr. Prohack was devising a suitable response.

“Welcome to your old home.  And do come with me to the buffet.  You must be tired after your work,” Mr. Prohack burst out in a bold, loud voice to Eliza, taking her away from his wife, whose nearly exhausted tact almost failed to hide her relief.

“I do hope you like the taste of my old home,” Eliza answered.  “My new house up the river is furnished throughout in real oriental red lacquer.  You must come and see it.”

“I should love to,” said Mr. Prohack bravely.

“This is my little sister, Miss Fancy.  Fan, Mr. Prohack.”

Mr. Prohack expressed his enchantment.

At the buffet Eliza did not refuse champagne, but Miss Fancy refused.  “Now don’t put on airs, Fan,” Eliza reproved her sister heartily and drank off her glass while Mr. Prohack sipped his somewhat cautiously.  He liked Eliza’s reproof.  He was beginning even to like Eliza.  To say that her style was coarse was to speak in moderation; but she was natural, and her individuality seemed to be sending out waves in all directions, by which all persons in the vicinity were affected whether they desired it or not.  Mr. Prohack met Eliza’s glance with satisfaction.  She at any rate had nothing to learn about life that she was capable of learning.  She knew everything-and was probably the only creature in the room who did.  She had succeeded.  She was adored-strangely enough.  And she did not put on airs.  Her original coarseness was apparently quite unobscured, whereas that of Miss Fancy had been not very skilfully painted over.  Miss Fancy was a blonde, much younger than Eliza; also slimmer and more finickingly and luxuriously dressed and jewelled.  But Mr. Prohack cared not for her.  She was always keeping her restless inarticulate lips in order, buttoning them or sewing them up or caressing one with the other.  Further, she looked down her nose; probably this trait was the secret lien between her and Mr. Softly Bishop.  Mr. Prohack, despite a cloistral lifetime at the Treasury, recognised her type immediately.  She was of the type that wheedles, but never permits itself to be wheedled.  And she was so pretty, and so simpering, and her blue eyes were so steely.  And Mr. Prohack, in his original sinfulness, was pleased that she was thus.  He felt that “it would serve Softly Bishop out.”  Not that Mr. Softly Bishop had done him any harm!  Indeed the contrary.  But he had an antipathy to Mr. Softly Bishop, and the spectacle of Mr. Softly Bishop biting off more than he could chew, of Mr. Softly Bishop being drawn to his doom, afforded Mr. Prohack the most genuine pleasure.  Unfortunately Mr. Prohack was one of the rare monsters who can contemplate with satisfaction the misfortunes of a fellow being.

Mr. Softly Bishop unostentatiously joined the sisters and Mr. Prohack.

“Better have just a sip,” he said to Miss Fancy, when told by Eliza that the girl would not be sociable.  His eyes glimmered at her through his artful spectacles.  She listened obediently to his low-voiced wisdom and sipped.  She was shooting a million fascinations at him.  Mr. Prohack decided that the ultimate duel between the two might be a pretty even thing after all; but he would put his money on the lady.  And he had thought Mr. Softly Bishop so wily!

A fearful thought suddenly entered his mind:  supposing the failure of the church-clock’s striking powers should be only temporary; supposing it should recover under some verger’s treatment, and strike twelve!

“Let’s go into the conservatory and look at the Square,” said he.  “I always look at the Square at midnight, and it’s nearly twelve now.”

“You’re the most peculiar man I ever met,” said Eliza Fiddle, eyeing him uneasily.

“Very true,” Mr. Prohack agreed.

“I’m half afraid of you.”

“Very wise,” said Mr. Prohack absently.

They crossed the rooms together, arousing keen interest in all beholders.  And as they crossed Charlie entered the assemblage.  He certainly had an extremely perturbed-or was it merely self-conscious-face.  And just in front of him was Mimi Winstock, who looked as if she was escaping from the scene of a crime.  Was Lady Massulam’s warning about Charlie about to be justified?  Mr. Prohack’s qualm was renewed.  The very ground trembled for a second under his feet and then was solid and moveless again.  No sooner had the quartette reached the conservatory than Eliza left it to go and discuss important affairs with Mr. Asprey Chown, who had summoned Ozzie to his elbow.  They might not have seen one another for many years, and they might have been settling the fate of continents.

Mr. Prohack took out his watch, which showed a minute to twelve.  He experienced a minute’s agony.  The clock did not strike.

“Well,” said Mr. Softly Bishop, who during the minute had been whispering information about the historic Square to Miss Fancy, who hung with all her weight on his words, “Well, it’s very interesting and even amusing, we three being alone here together isn’t it?...  The three heirs of the late Silas Angmering!  How funny life is!” And he examined his nose with new curiosity.

All Mr. Prohack’s skin tingled, and his face flushed, as he realised that Miss Fancy was the mysterious third beneficiary under Angmering’s will.  Yes, she was in fact jewelled like a woman who had recently been handling a hundred thousand pounds or so.  And Mr. Softly Bishop might be less fascinated by the steely blue eyes than Mr. Prohack had imagined.  Mr. Softly Bishop might in fact win the duel.  The question, however, had no interest for Mr. Prohack, who was absorbed in a sense of gloomy humiliation.  He rushed away from his co-heirs.  He simply had to rush away right to bad.