“Blackfriars Bridge.” “I’ve no doubt by paying a fortune you could find a more central position if you care to wait. The Bolivar Theatre, possibly——; or the Cone.... At the Cone, there’s a joy-plank from the auditorium to the stage, so that, should you want to ever, you can come right out into the stalls.” “I want my season at once,” Miss Sinquier said. Mrs. Sixsmith toyed with her rings. “What do you say,” she asked, “to making an informal début (before ‘royal’ auspices!) at the Esmé Fisher ‘Farewell’ coming off next week?” “Why not!” “Some of the stage’s brightest ornaments have consented to appear.” “I’d like particulars.” “I’ll send a note to the secretary, Miss Willinghorse, straight away,” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured, gathering up her constant Juno beneath her arm, and looking about her for some ink. “Send it later, from the Café Royal.” “I can’t go any more to the Café Royal,” Mrs. Sixsmith said. “I owe money there.... To all the waiters.” “Wait till after we’ve seen the Washingtons.” “The Washingtons? Who are they?” “Don’t you know?” “Besides, I’ve a small headache,” Mrs. Sixsmith said, selecting herself a quill. “What can I do to relieve it?” Miss Sinquier wondered, taking up a newspaper as her friend commenced to write. Heading the agony list some initials caught her eye. “_S——h S——r._ Come back. All shall be forgiven,” she read. “I can’t epistolize while you make those _unearthly_ noises,” Mrs. Sixsmith complained. “I didn’t mean to.” “Where are we going to dine?” “Where is there wonderful to go?” “How about a grill?” “I don’t mind.” “The Piccadilly? We’re both about got up for it.” Miss Sinquier rolled her eyes. “The Grill-room at the Piccadilly isn’t going to cure a headache,” she remarked. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ X TO watch Diana rise blurred above a damp chemise from a fifth-floor laundry garden in Foreign-Colony Street, Soho, had brought all Chelsea (and part of Paris) to study illusive atmospherical effects from the dizzy drying-ground of those versatile young men, Harold Weathercock and Noel Nice. Like a necropolis at the Resurrection, or some moody vision of Blake, would it appear under the evanescent rays of the moon. Nighties, as evening fell, would go off into proud Praxiteles—torsos of Nymphs or Muses: pants and ready-mades, at a hint of air would pirouette and execute a phantom ballet from Don John. Beyond the clothes lines was a Pagoda, set up in an extravagant mood, containing a gilded Buddha—a thorn and a symbol of unrighteousness to a convent of Ursulines whose recreation yard was underneath.