of coming to the rescue. She drew blank.     

       And then, from a distant corner, there sounded a deprecating, cough, and those nearest Cuthbert Banks saw that he had stopped twisting his right foot round his left ankle and his left foot round his right ankle and was sitting up with a light of almost human intelligence in his eyes.     

       "Er——" said Cuthbert, blushing as every eye in the room seemed to fix itself on him, "I think he means Abe Mitchell and Harry Vardon."     

       "Abe Mitchell and Harry Vardon?" repeated Mrs. Smethurst, blankly. "I never heard of——"     

       "Yais! Yais! Most! Very!" shouted Vladimir Brusiloff, enthusiastically.       "Arbmishel and Arreevadon. You know them, yes, what, no, perhaps?"     

       "I've played with Abe Mitchell often, and I was partnered with Harry Vardon in last year's Open."     

       The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier.     

       "You play in ze Open? Why," he demanded reproachfully of Mrs. Smethurst,       "was I not been introducted to this young man who play in opens?"     

       "Well, really," faltered Mrs. Smethurst. "Well, the fact is, Mr. Brusiloff——"     

       She broke off. She was unequal to the task of explaining, without hurting anyone's feelings, that she had always regarded Cuthbert as a piece of cheese and a blot on the landscape.     

       "Introduct me!" thundered the Celebrity.     

       "Why, certainly, certainly, of course. This is Mr.——."     

       She looked appealingly at Cuthbert.     

       "Banks," prompted Cuthbert.     

       "Banks!" cried Vladimir Brusiloff. "Not Cootaboot Banks?"     

       "Is your name Cootaboot?" asked Mrs. Smethurst, faintly.     

       "Well, it's Cuthbert."     

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