Mrs. Sixsmith threw a sidelong, intriguing glance across her shoulder. “Who’s the cure in plaits?” she demanded. “It’s Little May Mant—she’s seeing her sister home.” “Oh!... Is that Ita?” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured, stepping forward to embrace Miss “Ita Iris” of the Dream. Miss Sinquier swooped. “I’m having a season,” she, without further preamble, began. “And I want to persuade you to join....” “Principal?” “Yes.” “I should like to play for you,” Mr. Weathercock said. “Harold!” Miss Mant addressed him softly. “Well?” “Honey husband....” “Hook it!” “Give me a cigarette.” “Mary!” her sister called. “Quick! ’cos of Ita.” “Mary Mant.” Miss Mant tossed disdainfully an ultra large and “pasty”-faced head. “Why must you insult me, Ita?” she bitterly asked. “You _know_ I’m Miss Iris.” “I know you’re Miss Mant.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.” “No, I’m _not._” “I tell you, you are!” “Liar!” “M-A-N-T!” “Oh, stow it,” Mr. Smee said. “Put it by.” “I’m Réné Iris.” “Réné Rats.” Mrs. Sixsmith looked detached. “Is that a wash-tub?” she asked. “Certainly.” “What’s that odd thing floating, like the ghost of a child unborn?” “It belongs to Mrs. Mary.” “There’s a rumour—she refuses a fortune to show herself in Revue.” “With her hearse-horse tread....” “Sh——. Harold worships her.” “Oh, no.” “He sees things in her that we don’t, perhaps.” “To some ideas,” Mrs. Sixsmith said, “I suppose she’s very blooming still....” “If it wasn’t for her figure, which is really a disgrace.” Miss Iris smiled. She had a tired mouth, contrasting vividly with the artificial freshness of her teeth. “When I reach my zenith,” she declared, “it’s Farewell.” “Shall you assist at poor Esmé Fisher’s?” “A couple of songs—that’s all.” Mrs. Sixsmith looked away. “Naturally,” Miss Sinquier was saying, “one can’t expect instantly to be a draw. More than—perhaps—just a little!” “With a man who understands in the Box Office....” “Someone with a big nose and a strong will, eh?” Mr. Nice lifted a rusty iron and wiped it across his leg. “In my opinion,” he said, “to associate oneself with a sanctified classic is a huge mistake. And why start a season on the tragic tack?” “Because——” “Suppose it’s a frost?” “Oh!” “Suppose your venture fails. Suppose the thing’s a drizzle.” “What then?” “There’s a light comedy of mine that should suit you.” “Of yours!” “Appelled _Sweet Maggie Maguire._” “Tell me why she was sweet, Mr. Nice,” Mrs. Sixsmith begged. “Why she was sweet? I really don’t know.” “Was she sentimental...?” “She was an invalid. A bed-ridden beauty ... and, of course, the hero’s a Doctor.” “Oh! my word!” “Is there anyone at home?” A tired voice came thrilling up from below. “Who comes?” Mrs. Sixsmith started. “It sounds to me like my husband,” she said, with an involuntary nervous movement of the hands. “I forgot,” Mr. Weathercock said. “He mentioned he might blow in.” “Oh!” “I’d take to my heels!” Miss Iris advised.