“Meanwhile?” “He’ll pass for a Friar. The Moujik!” “Still....” “He’ll probably be priceless; the masses always love the man who can make them laugh.” Miss Sinquier moved restlessly towards the door and looked out. All was activity. Plants for the balcony set of a rambling, twining nature, together with a quantity of small wicker cages labelled “Atmospherics,” and containing bats, owls, lizards, etc., were in course of being prepared. The manageress knit her brows. “Miss Marquis,” she called, “instead of teasing the animals, I suggest you complete your toilet.” “... She’d better look sharp!” Mrs. Smee consulted her notes. “She reminds me more of a nurse-maid than a nurse,” she murmured. “Not what _I_ should have chosen for Juliet at all.” “Perhaps not.” “Miss Marquis has no stage presence. And such a poor physique—she’s too mean.” “Anyway, Sally’s got fine men. I never saw finer fellows. Even the Apothecary! Fancy taking the fatal dose from a lad like that; he makes me want to live.” Mrs. Smee purred. “To have interesting workmates is everything,” she said. “Hughie Huntress, as Producer, seemed quite stunned at the subtle material at his disposal.... In fact, he realized from the first, he told me, he _couldn’t_ ‘produce’ all of it.” Mrs. Sixsmith lowered her voice. “Where did Sally find her Balthasar,” she asked, “and where did she secure her Tybalt?” “My dear Mrs. Sixsmith, I’m not in the management’s secrets, remember, so much as you!” “Or who put her in the way of Sampson and Gregory? And _where_ did she get her Benvolio?” “Through an agent, I don’t doubt.” Mrs. Sixsmith threw a sidelong probing glance in the direction of the door. Already in her heart she felt herself losing her hold. Had the time inevitably come to make out the score? Through the open door came a squeal. “Sally, the owls!” “Leave them, Réné,” Miss Sinquier ordered. “_Dearest_, what diddlies; one has a look of old Sir Oliver!” Miss Mant declared, coming forward into the room. Clad in a pair of striped “culottes,” she had assumed, notwithstanding sororal remonstrance, the conspicuous livery of Paris. “I just looked in to thank you, darling,” she began, “for all your sweetness and goodness.... Oh Sally, when I saw the playbill with my name on it (right in among the gentlemen!) I thought I should have died. Who could have guessed ever it would be a breeches part?” “Turn round.” “Such jealous murmurings already as there are; a-citizen-of-Verona—an envious super without a line, whispered, as I went by, that my legs in these tissue tights had a look of forced asparagus.” “Nonsense.” “Of course: I knew that, Sally. But devil take me. How I’ll hate going back into virginals again; these trousers spoil you for skirts.” “Sprite.”