Far off by the Serpentine a woman was preaching from a tree to a small audience gathered beneath. How primeval she looked as her arms shot out in argument, a discarded cock’s-feather boa looped to an upper bough dangling like some dark python in the air above. Miss Sinquier sat on until the shadows fell. She found her friend on reaching Hay Hill in the midst of muffins and tea. “I gave you up. I thought you lost,” Mrs. Sixsmith exclaimed, hitching higher her veil with fingers super-manicured, covered in oxydized metal rings. “I was dozing in the Park.” “Dreamy kid.” “On my back neck I’ve such a freckle.” “Did you see Mammy Mary?” “I did.” “Well?” “Nothing; she offered me Miss Jacks’ leavings.” “Not good enough.” “What of Sir Oliver?” “I hardly know how to tell you.” “Has he——?” Mrs. Sixsmith nodded. “He has had an offer of two thousand pounds,” she triumphantly said, “for the pearls alone.” “Two thousand pounds!” “Call it three o’s.” “Okh!” “Consider what commercial credit that means....” “I shall play Juliet.” “Juliet?” “I shall have a season.” “Let me take the theatre for you.” “Is it a dream?” “I will find you actors—great artists.” “Oh, God!” “And, moreover, I have hopes for the silver, too. Sir Oliver is enchanted with the spoons—the Barnabas spoon especially. He said he had never seen a finer. Such a beautiful little Barny, such a rapture of a little sinner as it is, in every way.” Miss Sinquier’s eyes shone. “I’ll have that boy.” “What—what boy?” “Harold Weathercock.” “You desire him?” “To be my Romeo, of course.” “It depends if the Dream will release him.” “It must! It shall!” “I’ll peep in on him and sound him, if you like.” “We’ll go together.” “Very well.” “Do you know where he lives?” “In Foreign-Colony Street. He and a friend of his, Noel Nice, share a studio there. Not to paint in, alas! It’s to wash.” “What?” “They’ve made a little laundry of it. And when they’re not acting actually, they wash. Oh! sometimes when Mr. Nice spits across his iron and says Pah! it makes one ill.” “Have they any connection?” Mrs. Sixsmith bent her eyes to her dress. “Mr. Sixsmith often sent them things ... little things,” she said. “His linen was his pride. You might annex him, perhaps. He’s played Mercutio before.” “Is he handsome?” “Paul? He’s more interesting than handsome. _Unusual_, if you know....” “What _did_ you do to separate?” “I believe I bit him.” “You did!” “He ran at me with the fire-dogs first.” “I suppose you annoyed him?” “The cur!” “Something tells me you’re fond of him still.” From her reticule Mrs. Sixsmith took a small note-book and made an entry therein. “... The divine Shakespeare!” she sighed. “I mean to make a hit with him.” “Listen to me.” “Well?” “My advice to you is, hire a playhouse—the Cobbler’s End, for example—for three round months at a reasonable rent, with a right, should you wish, to sub-let.” “It’s so far off.” “Define ‘far off.’”