By degrees all clatter ceased. Approaching the footlights with a wistful smile, the favourite woman scanned the stalls. “Now most of you here this afternoon,” she intimately began, “I will venture to say, never heard of Judy Jacock. I grant you, certainly, there’s nothing very singular in that; for her life, which was a strangely frail one, essentially was obscure. Judy herself was _obscure._... And so that is why I say you can’t have ever heard of her!... Because she was totally unknown.... Ah, poor wee waif! Alas, she’s dead now. Judy’s among the angels ... and the beautiful little elegy which, with your consent, I intend forthwith to submit, is written around her, around little Judy, and around her old Father, her ‘_Da_’—James, who was a waiter. And while he was away waiting one day—he used to wipe the plates on the seat of his breeches!—his little Judy died. Ah, poor old James. Poor Sir James. But let the poet,” she broke off suddenly, confused, “take up the tale himself, or, rather—to be more specific!—_herself._ For the lines that follow, which are _inédit_, are from the seductive and charming pen of Lady Violet Sleepwell.” Lady Mary coughed, winked archly an eye, and began quite carelessly as if it were Swinburne: “_I never_ knew _James Jacock’s child.... I knew he_ had _a child! The daintiest little fairy that ever a father knew. She was all contentment._...” Miss Sinquier looked away. To her surprise, lurking behind a property torso of “a Fawn,” her pigtails roped with beads of scarlet glass, was Miss May Mant. “Tell me what you are up to?” she asked. “Sh——! Don’t warn Ita!” “Why should I?” “I dodged her. Beautifully.” “What for?” “If she thought I was going on the stage, she’d be simply wild.” “Are you?” “I intend tacking on in the Pope’s Procession.” “That won’t be just yet.” “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?” “What?” “Being here.” “It’s rather pleasant.” “Can you feel the boards?” “A little.” “They go _right_ through me. Through my shoes, up my legs, and at my heart they sting.” “Kiss me.” “I love you.” “Pet.” “Do I look interesting?” “Ever so.” “Would you take me for a Cardinal’s comfort?” Lady Mary lifted up her voice: “_Come, Judy, the angel said, And took her from her little bed, And through the air they quickly sped Until they reached God’s throne; So, there, they dressed her all in white, They say she was a perfect sight, Celestial was her mien!_” “Lady Violet Sleepwell admires Ita.” “Indeed.” “She’s a victim to chloral.” “_Rose-coiffed stood J. Amid the choir, Celestial-singing!_” The august artiste glowed. “Ita thinks she drinks.” “I shouldn’t wonder,” Miss Sinquier replied, covering her face with her hands.