Dropping to a fine _cassoni_ she perused with contracted brows a small sheaf of notices, the gist of which bore faint pencilled lines below. “Her acting is a revelation.” “We found her very refreshing.” “There has been nothing like it for years.” “Go to the Source.” “An unfeminine Juliet.” “A decadent Juliet.” “... The Romeo kiss—you take your broadest fan.” “The kiss in Romeo takes only fifteen minutes.... ‘Some’ kiss!” “The Romeo kiss will be the talk of the town.” “A distinctive revival.” “I sat at the back of the pit-stalls and trembled.” “Kiss——” “The last word in kisses.” “Tio, Tio, Io! Io! jug—jug!” “Shakespeare as a Cloak.” “A smart Juliet.” “An immoral Juliet.” “Before a house packed to suffocation——” “Among those present at the Source last night were”—she looked—“were, Queen Henriette Marie, Duchess of Norwich, Dismalia Duchess of Meath-and-Mann, Lady Di Flattery, Lord and Lady Newblood, Mr. and Lady Caroline Crofts, Sir Gottlieb and Lady Gretel Teuton-Haven, ex-King Bomba, ex-King Kacatogan, ex-Queen of Snowland, ex-Prince Marphise, Hon. Mrs. Mordecai, Lady Wimbush, Lord and Lady Drumliemore, Sir John and Lady Journeyman, Lord and Lady Lonely, Lady Harrier, Feodorowna Lady Meadowbank, Lady Lucy Lacy, Duchess of Netherland and _Lady Diana Haviours_, Miss Azra, Miss Christine Cross, Sir Francis and Lady Four, Madame Kotzebue, Comtesse Yvonde de Tot, Mlle. de Tot, Duque de Quaranta, Marquesa Pitti-Riffa and Sir Siegfried Seitz.” So ... she sneezed, all was well! A success: undoubtedly. “Oh God! How quite ... _delicious_!” she murmured, snatching up a Cinquecento cope transformed to be a dressing-gown, and faring forth for an airing upon the stage. At that hour there wasn’t a soul. The darkened auditorium looked wan and eerie, the boxes caves. The churchyard scene with its unassuming crosses, accentuating the regal sepulchre of the Capulets (and there for that), showed grimly. “Wisht!” she exclaimed, as a lizard ran over her foot. Frisking along the footlights, it disappeared down a dark trap hole. Had Réné been setting more traps? Upon a mysterious mound by a jam-jar full of flowers was a hunk of cheese. She stood a moment fascinated. Then bracing herself, head level, hands on hips, she executed a few athletic figures to shake off sleep. Suddenly there was a cry; a cry that was heard outside the theatre walls, blending half-harmoniously with the London streets. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ XVII THE rich trot of funeral horses died imperceptibly away. Looking out somewhat furtively from beneath her veil, Mrs. Sixsmith could observe only a few farmers conversing together beneath the immemorial yews of S. Irene. It was over. There was nothing left to do but to throw a last glance at the wreaths.