Jim's speech created both merriment and curiosity, and was followed by a prompt call of "Author, author!" A few seconds, and then the stage-manager responds by leading Sylla forward in her soubrette dress. Dropping the sauciest of curtsies in acknowledgment of the applause with which she is greeted, she replies in clear distinct tones, "Ladies and gentlemen, you find our word unintelligible. Paradoxical as it may seem, that is precisely the result we have aimed at; and now that I have told you the word, I am sure you will admit our efforts have been successful;" and once more bowing to her audience, Sylla disappeared behind the curtain Jim held back for her. What can she mean? What do they mean? What is it? What was the word? were questions responded to by the jolly laugh of Cedric Bloxam. "Can't you see?" he said, "it's all a sell: we found it unintelligible, and that is precisely what we were meant to do--that's the word." And once more the Squire indulged in a hearty guffaw. But now the company flock into the drawing-room for tea or other refreshment, while the servants rapidly clear the play-room for dancing. The curtain is pulled up, the stage occupied by a select section of the Commonstone band, and, in something like a quarter of an hour Jim's impromptu dance is in full swing. "My dear Sylla," exclaimed Lady Mary, as that young lady, leaning upon Bloxam's arm, stopped near her in one of the pauses of the valse, "I have not had an opportunity of congratulating you upon your very spirited pantomime--carried, my dear, a _little_ too far in that last charade." "Oh, I hope you don't really think so, Lady Mary," cried Sylla; "but you cannot half act a thing. When the exigencies of the stage require one to be embraced, one must admit of that ceremony. Surely if a girl has scruples about going through such a mere form, she had much better decline to act at once." "That's a question that we will not argue," said Lady Mary. "I hear you are going to stay with Mrs. Wriothesley for the remainder of the London season." "Yes, she is an aunt of mine; you know her, I believe." "Very well; we are old friends, although I don't see so much of her as I once did. The London world has got so very big, you see, and Mrs. Wriothesley and I have drifted into different sets." "Yes," chimed in Pansey Cottrell, who was standing by, "it has got perfectly unendurable. One could calculate at one time upon seeing a good deal of one's friends during the season; now half of them we only come across some once or twice. But surely you and Mrs. Wriothesley see a good deal of each other." "No, not in these days," rejoined Lady Mary, tartly, much to Mr. Cottrell's amusement.