And then, her thoughts tripped on, _he_ came: the Rev. George—“just as I was wondering to whom to apply”—and drew all Applethorp to S. Ann-on-the-Hill by the persuasive magnetism of his voice; largely due—so he said—to “scientific production.” To the _Bromley Breath_! He never could adequately thank Elizabeth, Mrs. Albert Bromley, for all she had done. No; because words failed.... Her Institute, for him, would be always “top-o’-the-tree,” and when asked, by her, “What tree?” he had answered with a cryptic look: “She trains them for the stage.” Dear heart! How much he seemed to love it. He had known by their green-room names all the leading stars, and could tell on occasion, little anecdotes of each. It was he who narrated how Mrs. Mary (as she was then), on the first night of _Gulnara, Queen of the Lattermonians_, got caught in the passenger-lift on the way from her dressing-room to the stage and was obliged to allow her understudy to replace her, which with the utmost _éclat_ she did, while Mrs. Mary, who could overhear the salvos from her prison, was driven quite distraught at a triumph that, but for the irony of things, would most certainly have been hers. Miss Sinquier sighed. “Which reminds me,” she murmured, fixing her eyes upon the storied ceiling, “that I’ve no one at all, should anything happen to me.” She lay back and considered the inchoate imagery painted in gouache above her. Hydropic loves with arms outstretched in invitation, ladies in hectic hats and billowing silks, courtiers, lap-dogs, peacocks, etc., all intermingled in the pleasantest way. As she gazed a great peace fell upon her. Her eyelids closed. * * * * * “Breakfast!” Miss May Mant woke her with a start. “Oh!” “I laid it to-day in the stalls.” “Extraordinary child.” “Crumbs in the boxes, I’ve noticed, encourage mice.... They must come from the spring, I think, under the stage.” “One ought to set a trap!” “Poor creatures ... they enjoy a good play, I expect, as much as we do,” Miss Mant murmured, setting down the kettle she was holding and lowering her cheek graciously for a kiss. “Well?” “You were asleep.” “Was I horrid?” “You looked too perfectly orchidaceous.” “Orchidaceous?” “Like the little women of Outa-Maro.” Miss Sinquier sat up. “What is there for breakfast?” she asked. “Do you like porridge?” “Oh, Réné!” Miss Mant raised a bare shoulder and crushed it to an ear. “Really,” she remarked, “I’m at a loss to know what to give you, Sally; I sometimes ask myself what Juliet took....” “Why, potions.” “_Ita_ takes tea luke with a lemon; and it makes her _so_ cross.” “Disgusting.” “À la Russe.” “Is she still away?” “Yes.... She writes from a toy bungalow, she says, with the sea at the very door and a small shipwreck lying on the beach.” “What of Paris?” “I’m Page to him, you said so!” “With her consent.”