Mrs. Sixsmith stood transfixed. The moonlight fell full on her, making her features look drawn and haggard. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ XI LIKE wildfire the rumour ran. The King had knighted—he had knighted—by what accident?—Mr. Mary, in lieu of Mr. Fisher, at Mr. Fisher’s own farewell. In the annals of the stage such an occurrence was unheard of, unique. The excitement in the green-room was intense. “M-m! He is not de first to zell is birs-r-rite for a mess of porridge!” Yvonde Yalta, the playgoers’ darling, remarked as she poised with an extravagant play of arms, a black glittering bandeau on her short flaxen hair. “A mess of pottage!” someone near her said. “You correct me? Ah, sanx! I am so grateful, so—_so_ grateful,” the charming creature murmured as she sailed away. From the auditorium came a suppressed titter. The curtain had risen some few minutes since on Mlle. Fanfette and Monsieur Coquelet de Chaussepierre of the Théâtre Sans Rancune in the comedietta, _Sydney, or There’s No Resisting Him._ “It’s extraordinary I’ve never seen a man knighted,” a show-girl twittered, “and I’ve seen a good deal....” “How do they do them?” “Like this,” a sparkling brunette answered, bestowing a sly pat on the interlocutress with the back of a brush. “Of all the common——!” “Ladies! Ladies!” “Who was in front at the time?” “I was!” Mrs. Sixsmith said, who had just peeped in to exchange a few words with her friend. “You were?” “I was selling sweets in the vestibule and saw it all. Really! If I live to be an old woman I shan’t forget it. Mr. Mary—_Sir Maurice_—was in the lobby chatting with Sylvester Fry of the _Dispatch_, when the Royal party arrived. The King instantly noticed him and sent one of his suite, quite unpremeditatedly, it seemed, to summon him, and in a trice ... Oh! ... and I _never_ saw the Queen look so charming. She has a gold dress turning to white through the most exquisite gradations....” Mrs. Sixsmith was overcome. “A-wheel,” Miss Sinquier’s dresser disrespectfully said, “how was the poor man to tell? Both the blighters—God forgive me—are equally on their last legs.” Miss Sinquier shivered. “Is it a good house?” she inquired. “Splendid. Outside they’re flying five ‘full’ boards.... There’s not a single vacant place. Poor Sydney Iphis gave half a guinea for a seat in the slips.” “Are you here all alone?” “I’m with Sir Oliver Dawtry,” Mrs. Sixsmith replied, “except when I’m running about!... Can I sell anyone anything?” she inquired, raising sonorously her voice. “Vanilla! Caramel! Chocolate!... Comfits,” she warbled. “What have you netted?” “Eighteenpence only, so far;—from such an angel!” “Comfits, did you say?” a round-faced, piquant little woman asked. “Despite disguise! If it isn’t Arthurine Smee!” The actress displayed astonishment.