POLICEMAN. And you suppose correctly. But where does a lady keep them? BODIE. In the same place, I suppose. POLICEMAN. Then you suppose wrongly. No, sir, here. (_He taps his own chest, and indicates discreetly how a lady may pop something down out of sight._) BODIE (_impressed_). I believe you are right, officer. POLICEMAN. I am right—it’s infallayble. A lady, what with drink and such like misfortunes, may forget all her other refinements, but she never forgets that. At the Yard it’s considered as sure as finger-marks. BODIE. Strange! I wonder who was the first woman to do it. It couldn’t have been Eve this time, officer. POLICEMAN (_after reflecting_). I see your point. And now I want just to have a look at the party unbeknownst to her. Where could I conceal myself? BODIE. Hide? POLICEMAN. Conceal myself. BODIE. That small door opens on to my pantry, where she washes up. POLICEMAN (_peeping in_). It will do. Now bring her up. BODIE. It doesn’t seem fair—I really can’t— POLICEMAN. War-time, sir. (MR. BODIE _decides that it is patriotic to ring. The_ POLICEMAN _emerges from the pantry with a slavey’s hat and jacket_.) These belong to the party, sir? BODIE. I forgot. She keeps them in there. (_He surveys the articles with some emotion._) Gaudy feathers. And yet that hat may have done some gallant things. The brave apparel of the very poor! Who knows, officer, that you and I are not at this moment on rather holy ground. POLICEMAN (_stoutly_). I see nothing wrong with the feathers. I must say, sir, I like the feathers. (_He slips into the pantry with the hat and jacket, but forgets his helmet, over which the artist hastily jams a flower bowl. There were visiting cards in the bowl and they are scattered on the floor._ MR. BODIE _sees them not: it is his first attempt at the conspirator, and he sits guiltily with a cigarette just in time to deceive_ CINDERELLA, _who charges into the room as from a catapult. This is her usual mode of entrance, and is owing to her desire to give satisfaction._)