“Oh, Ita hates the stage. She’s only _on it_ of course to make a match ...; she could have been an Irish countess had she pleased, only she said it wasn’t smart enough, and it sounded too Sicilian.” “Everyone can’t be Roman.” “... Oh, she’s such a minx. In her letter she writes, ‘I don’t doubt you’ll soon grow tired of the Sally-Sin Theatre and of dancing attendance on the Fair Sink.’” “Cat.” “And her Manting ways just to annoy. Mant, Mant, Mant! She does it to humiliate. Whenever the Tirds are in earshot she’s sure to begin.” “The Tirds?” “Llewellyn and Lydia. Lydia Tird has an understanding with my big brother. Poor lad! Just before I left home he took the name of Isadore: Isadore Iris. Oh, when Ita heard! Bill Mant she said and made Llewellyn laugh.” “Oh!” “And now that Mrs. Sixsmith ‘Mants’ me almost as much as Ita.” “Why do you dislike her so much?” “Cadging creature!” “Réné?” “Limpet.” “Réné?” “Parasite.” “Réné——!” “Scavenger.” “_Basta!_” “I know all about her.” “What do you know?” “If I tell you, I’ll have to tell you in French.” “Then tell me in French.” “Elle fait des cornes à son mari!” “What next?” “She’s _divorcée_!” “Poor soul.” “Out at _Bois St. Jean_—St. John’s Wood—she has a villa.” Miss Sinquier got up. “Anyway,” she murmured. “Oh, Sally....” “Well?” “You do love me?” “Why, _of course._” “Let’s go presently to a Turkish bath—after rehearsal.” “Not to-day.” “... Just for a ‘Liver Pack’?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because ... and when you’re out, don’t, dear, forget a mousetrap!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ XIV TO bring together certain of the dramatic critics (such high arbiters of the stage as Sylvester Fry of the _Dispatch_, Lupin Petrol of _Now_, Amethyst Valer of _Fashion_, Berinthia of _Woodfalls_ (the terrible, the embittered Berinthia who was also Angela)), cards had been sent out from Foreign-Colony Street, in the comprehensive name of Sir Oliver Dawtry, the famous banker and financier, to meet the new lessee of the Source. It was one of those sultry summer nights of electricity and tension, when nerves at almost nothing are apt to explode. Beyond the iron Calvary on the Ursulines’ great wall, London flared with lights. Perched upon a parapet in brilliant solitude, her identity unsuspected by the throng, Miss Sinquier, swathed in black mousseline and nursing a sheaf of calla lilies, surveyed the scene with inexpressive eyes. “And there was the wind bellowing and we witches wailing: and no Macbeth!” a young man with a voice like cheap scent was saying to a sympathetic journalist for whatever it might be worth.... Miss Sinquier craned her head. Where were the two “Washingtons”? or the little Iris girl?