Upon arrival at ‘Pier View’ it proved unnecessary for three several reasons, all of which were evil, to ring the front-door bell. In the first place, they did not and were not expected to use the front door. Secondly, a small boy, who was at once wearing a tight green blazer and dirty flannel shorts, swinging idly upon the area gate and contemplating the seething pageant of pleasure-seekers under the comfortable auspices of a generous complement of butterscotch, took one look at husband and wife and then fell down the steps, bellowing, “’Ere they are!” Thirdly, the little knot of passers-by which would long ago have collected, had the equipage but halted, began to give the driver an appreciative hearing. Bob was out of the fly and stooping to set Ann’s dressing-case by the area gate; as he turned, the small boy reappeared, followed by a large business-like countenance which gave the impression of being able to look extremely unpleasant but was at the moment wreathed in winning smiles; flanking this, rose two other feminine faces, open-mouthed, peering—one fat, snub-nosed, jolly-eyed; the other discontented and pinched; the little knot of bystanders was swelling into an obstruction; the cabman was relating an anecdote which pointed the wisdom of the removal of boots before retiring. . . . Ann saw it all as in an ugly dream. It occurred to her that the train-journey and this were but the prologue—the induction to the play she had commanded, the devilish comedy in which she was to play the lead. The induction had been startling, but the play . . . The play was to be the thing. Of course. Plays were. The prologue was nothing. So far she had hardly appeared. When the curtain rose on the play . . . She found herself wondering if there would be an epilogue. Suddenly, with a frightful shock, she realized that the curtain was up, that the stage was waiting . . . _waiting_ . . . that this—was—her—cue. . . . _Crowd laughs at cabman’s sallies. Aunt Harriet and the girls reach the top of the area steps. Bob is busy with her trunk. Gramophone next door starts ‘YES! We have no bananas.’ Cabman stops his discourse, listens intently, and then says, ‘’Ark! The ’erald angels sing.’ Crowd yells with delight._ Enter _The Lady Ann Minter. . . ._ Ann pulled herself together and got out of the cab. Then she turned to the driver and put out her hand. “Thank you so much for bringing us,” she said most charmingly. It was a fatal gesture—because it was the act of a lady. The laughter snapped off short: the grins faded: the genial atmosphere stiffened with a jar. The cabman’s assurance fell from him like a shirt of mail. His drollery collapsed before a mountainous wave of respect. He took off his shabby hat and touched the slight fingers. “Thank you, m’m,” he said humbly. Amidst a gaping silence Ann turned to the steps.