“So-so. I’ve been away on tour. Mildred Milson and Co. Oh! my Lord—it was. No sooner did we get to Buxton—down in Derbyshire—than Miss Milson fell sick and had to be left behind.” “What was wrong with her?” “Exposure.... On Bank Holiday some of the company hired a three-horse char-à-banc and drove from Buxton over to Castleton Caves—my hat. What hills!—and from there we went to take a squint at Chatsworth, where Miss Milson came over queer.” “And how does Mrs. Smee?” “So-so.” “One never sees her now.” “There she sits all day, reading Russian novels. Talk of gloom!” “Really?” “Oh, it is!” “Well.... I’m fond of thoughtful, theosophical reading, too, Mr. Smee,” Mrs. Sixsmith said. “Madame Blavatsky and Mrs. Annie Besant are both favourites with me.” Mr. Smee jerked an eloquent thumb. “Who have you brought along?” “She’s a special pal of mine.” “Married?” “Mon Dieu,” Mrs. Sixsmith doubtfully said. “Je _crois_ que c’est une Pucelle.” “Never!” Mr. Smee, completely mystified, hazarded. “Fie donc. Comme c’est _méchant._” “Wee, wee.” Mrs. Sixsmith tittered. “She’s going into management very soon.” “Swank?” “We seek a Romeo, Mr. Smee.” “Now, now...!” “Don’t look like that, Mr. Smee—nobody’s asking you,” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured. Mr. Smee scratched reflectively his head. “Who is it you’re after?” he asked. “We fancied Mr. Weathercock might suit.” “God has given him looks, but no brains,” Mr. Smee emphatically declared. “No more brains than a cow in a field.” “His is indeed a charming face,” Mrs. Sixsmith sighed. “And as to his brains, Mr. Smee—why, come!” “Who’s to create the countess?” he asked. “Lady Capulet? It’s not determined yet.” “Why not canvass the wife?” “Has she been in Shakespeare before?” “From the time she could toddle; in a _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, when not quite two, she was the Bug with gilded wings.” “Pet!” “Sure....” Mrs. Sixsmith clasped prayerfully her hands. “And in Mr. Smee,” she said, “I see the makings of a fine Friar Lawrence!” “How’s that?” “With a few choice _concetti._” “Faith!” “I see the lonely cell, the chianti-flask, the crucifix....” “Gosh!” “I see Verona ... the torrid sky ... the town ascending, up, up, up. I hear the panting nurse. She knocks. Your priest’s eyes glisten. She enters, blouse-a-gape—a thorough coster. You raise your cowl.... Chianti? She shakes her head. Benedictine? No! no! A little Chartreuse, then? Certainly not! Nothing.... You squeeze her waist. Her cries ‘go through’ Lady Capulet and her daughter in the distant city on their way to mass. Romeo enters. So!” Mrs. Sixsmith broke off as Mr. Weathercock and a curly-headed lad, followed by a swathed woman and a whey-faced child, showed themselves upon the stairs. Mrs. Sixsmith sought Miss Sinquier’s arm. “Listen to me, my darling!” she said. “Well?” “Write.” “What?” “Write.” “Why?” “Because I fear we intrude.” “Intrude?” Harold Weathercock exclaimed, coming up. “I assure you it’s a treat....”