Here, at a certain hour when the Mother Superior was wont to walk round and round her preserves, a young, bewhiskered man frequently would come bearing ceremonial offerings of rice or linen newly washed, and falling flat before the shrine would roll himself about and beat the ground as if in mortal anguish of his sins before her fascinated eye. Here, too, from time to time, festivities would take place—sauteries (to a piano-organ), or convivial _petits soupers_ after the play. An iron ladder connected the roof with the work and living-rooms below. Ascending this by the light of the stars, Mrs. Sixsmith and the _New Juliet_, gay from a certain grill, audaciously advanced, their playful screams rendered inaudible by the sounds of a tricksome waltz wafted down to them from the piano-organ above. Items of linen nestling close to a line overhead showed palely against the night like roosting doves. “Help.... Oh! she’s falling,” Mrs. Sixsmith screamed. “Are you there, Mr. Nice?” “Give me your hand,” Miss Sinquier begged. “Should she rick her spine....” “Whew-ps!” Miss Sinquier exclaimed, scrambling to the top. London, beyond the frail filigree cross on the Ursulines’ bleached wall, blazed with light. From the Old Boar and Castle over the way came a perfect flood of it. And all along the curved river-line from Westminster to St. Paul’s glittered lamps, lamps, lamps. Folding an arm about her friend’s “wasp” waist, Mrs. Sixsmith whirled her deftly round to a wild street air: “_I like your ways, I like your style, You are my darling_——” she hummed as the organ stopped. “Come to finish the evening?” A small, thick-set, grizzled man with dark æsthetic eyes and a pinkish nose, the result maybe of continuously tinting it for music-hall purposes, addressed the breathless ladies in a broad, inquiring voice. “Is that _you_, Mr. Smee?” Mrs. Sixsmith asked, surprised. “Call me ‘Shawn.’” “We’ve only come on business.” “Don’t! You make me laf.” “Then—do it,” Mrs. Sixsmith serenely said, resting her left knee against an empty keg of beer. “They’re not back from the theatre yet.” “Turn for us till they come.” Mr. Smee dashed from a crimpled brow a wisp of drooping hair. “By your leave, ladies,” he said, “I’ll just slip across to the Old Boar and Castle and sample a snack at the bar.” “Don’t run off, Mr. Smee. You really mustn’t. On tiles, they say, one usually meets with _cats._” “Oh, my word.” Mrs. Sixsmith placed a hand to her hip in the style of an early John. “How long is it—say—since we met?” she inquired. “Not since my wedding, I do believe.” “What’s become of those kiddy bridesmaids you had?” Mr. Smee warily asked. “Gerty Gale and Joy Patterson?—I’m sure I don’t know.” “Oh, my word.” “Well, how goes the world with _you_, Mr. Smee?”