supped with Mr. Goad. Every mouthful which Mr. Groome took reminded me more strongly of my meal with Mr. Goad. The one man reproduced, to a nicety, the other's minutest peculiarities. Miss Groome's words caused me to cease making almost unconscious mental comparisons. I fancy that I actually started.
"Most extraordinary thing, Miss Groome, it really was! Mr. Groome, were you ever at the Apollo Club?"
"Not that I am aware of. Where is it? My club's the Carlton. I haven't been in another club in London, I daresay, for twenty years. The Apollo Club? What sort of club is that? I don't think I ever heard of it."
"Do you know a man named Goad?"
"Goad! Goad! What a name!" Mr. Groome looked at me and smiled—Mr. Goad's smile. "I have no recollection of the fact Why? Has an individual of that name claimed the pleasure of my acquaintance?"
"No, only—it was the queerest thing—at a concert at the Apollo the other night there was a man named Goad—Isaac Goad. If you saw him, I doubt if you would know which was he and which was you."
"Was he so like papa?" asked Nora.
"Like! If you had his portrait But there is his portrait"
I pointed to a portrait in oils of Mr. Groome which hung over the fireplace. They stared at it and then at me. Nora laughed.
"Are you joking, Mr. Attree? Do you mean that that is Mr. Goad, or that it is only like him? You
