In the old-world Deanery drawing room, coffee and liqueurs—a Sunday indulgence—had been brought in. Miss Sinquier set down her cup. Behind her, through the open windows, a riot of light leaves and creepers was swaying restively to and fro. “I imagine the _Font_ hid me,” she answered with a little laugh. Canon Sinquier considered with an absent air an abundant-looking moon, then turned towards his wife. “To-morrow, Mary,” he said, “there’s poor Mrs. Cushman again.” At her cylinder-desk, between two flickering candles, Mrs. Sinquier, while her coffee grew cold, was opening her heart to a friend. “Do, Mike, keep still,” she begged. “Still?” “Don’t fidget. Don’t talk.” “Or dare to breathe,” her daughter added, taking up a Sunday journal and approaching nearer the light. “‘At the Olive Theatre,’” she read, “‘Mrs. Starcross will produce a new comedy, in the coming autumn, which promises to be of the highest interest.’” Her eyes kindled. “Oh God!” “‘At the Kehama, Yvonde Yalta will be seen shortly in a Japanese piece, with singing mandarins, geishas, and old samurai—’” “Dear Lord!” “‘Mr. and Mrs. Mary are said to be contemplating Management again.’” “Heavens above!” “‘For the revival of _She Stoops to——_’” Crescendo, across the mist-clad Close broke a sorrowful, sated voice. “You can fasten the window, Sarah,” Canon Sinquier said. “It’s Miss Biggs!” “Who could have taught her? How?” the Canon wondered. Mrs. Sinquier laid down her pen. “I dread her intimate dinner!” she said. “Is it to be intimate?” “Isn’t she always? ‘Come round and see me soon, Miss Sarah, _there’s_ a dear, and let’s be intimate!’” “Really, Sally!” “Sally can take off anyone.” “It’s vulgar, dear, to mimic.” “Vulgar?” “It isn’t nice.” “Many people do.” “Only mountebanks.” “I’d bear a good deal to be on the stage.” Canon Sinquier closed his eyes. “Recite, dear, something; soothe me,” he said. “Of course, if you wish it.” “Soothe me, Sally!” “Something to obliterate the sermon?” Miss Sinquier looked down at her feet. She had on black babouches all over little pearls with filigree butterflies that trembled above her toes. “_Since first I beheld you, Adele, While dancing the celinda, I have remained faithful to the thought of you; My freedom has departed from me,_ _I care no longer for all other negresses; I have no heart left for them;— You have such grace and cunning;— You are like the Congo serpent._” Miss Sinquier paused. “You need the proper movements....” she explained. “One ought _really_ to shake one’s shanks!” “Being a Day-of-rest, my dear, we will dispense with it.”