In the crescent-shaped, cedar-walled, cedar-beamed room, a table at a confidential angle had been reserved. “There’s a big gathering here to-night,” Sir Oliver observed, glancing round him, a “board-room” mask clinging to him still. Miss Sinquier looked intellectual. “I find it hot!” she said. “You do.” “I find London really very hot.... It’s after the north, I suppose. In the north it’s always much cooler.” “Are you from the north?” “Yes, indeed she is,” Mrs. Sixsmith chimed in. “And so am _I_,” she said. “Two north-country girls!” she added gaily. Sir Oliver spread sentimentally his feet. “The swans at Blenheim; the peacocks at Warwick!” he sighed. “What do you mean, Sir Oliver?” “Intimate souvenirs....” “I should say so.... Swans and peacocks! I wonder you’re prepared to admit it.” “Admit it?” “Outside of _Confessions_, Sir Oliver.” Miss Sinquier raised a hurried hand to her glass. “No, no, no, no, no, no wine!” she exclaimed. “Something milky....” “Fiddlesticks. Our first little dinner.” “Oh, Sir Oliver.” “And not, I trust, our last!” “I enjoy it so much—going out.” Mrs. Sixsmith slapped her little dog smartly upon the eyes with her fan. “Couch-toi,” she admonished. “What can fret her?” “She fancies she sees Paul.” “Worthless fellow!” Sir Oliver snapped. “I was his rib, Sir Oliver.” “Forget it.” “I can’t forget it.” “J-j-j——” “Only this afternoon I ran right into him—it was just outside the Café Royal....” “Scamp.” “He looked superb. Oh, so smart; spats, speckled trousers, the rest all deep indigo. Rather Russian.” “Who?” “My actor-husband, Paul. There. One has only to speak his name for Juno to jerk her tail.” “With whom is he at present?” “With Sydney Iphis.” “We went last night to see Mrs. Starcross,” Sir Oliver said. “She’s no draw.” “I long to see her,” Miss Sinquier breathed. “I understand, my dear young lady, you’ve an itch for the footlights yourself.” Miss Sinquier began eating crumbs at random. “God knows!” she declared. “C’est une âme d’élite, Sir Oliver.” “You’ve no experience at all?” “None.” Sir Oliver refused a dish. “We old ones ...” he lamented. “Once upon a time, I was in closer touch with the stage.” “Even so, Sir Oliver, you still retain your footing.” “Footing, f-f-f——; among the whole demned lot, who persists still but, perhaps, the Marys?” “Take the Marys. A word to them; just think what a boon!” “Nothing so easy.” Miss Sinquier clasped her hands. “One has heard of them often, of course.” “Mr. and Mrs. Mary have won repute throughout the realm,” Mrs. Sixsmith impressively said, wondering (as middlewoman) what commission she should ask. “Mrs. Mary, I dare say, is no longer what she was!” “Mrs. Mary, _aujourd’hui_, is a trifle, perhaps, full-blown, but she’s most magnetic still. And a warmer, quicker heart never beat in any breast.” “In her heyday, Sir Oliver—but you wouldn’t have seen her, of course.” The baronet’s eyes grew extinct.