“Upon what could she spend so much?” “Her clothes,” Mrs. Sixsmith replied with a nervous titter, “for one thing, were exquisite. All from the atelier of the divine Katinka King....” “King?” “She _knew_! Puss! The white mantilla for the Balcony scene alone cost her close on three hundred pounds.” “And where, may I ask, is it now?” “It disappeared,” Mrs. Sixsmith answered, a quick red shooting over her face, “in the general confusion. I hear even,” she murmured with a little laugh, “they even filched the till!” “What of the little _ingénue_ she took to live with her?” “May Mant? Her sister is sending her to school—if (that is) she can get her to go!” “It was her inadvertence, I take it, that caused my daughter’s death.” “Indeed, sir, yes. But for her—she had been setting traps! She and a girl called Tird: a charming couple!” “Oh?” “Your daughter and she used frequently to take their meals in the boxes, which made, of course, for mice. There was a well, you know, below the stage.” “So she wrote her mother.” Mrs. Sixsmith fumbled in the depths of a beaded pouch. “There was a letter found in one of her jacket-pockets, Canon,” she said. “Perhaps you might care to have it.” “A letter? From whom?” “A young coster of Covent Garden, who saw your daughter at a stage-farewell.” “Be so good, dear lady, as to inform me of its contents.” “It’s quite illiterate,” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured, putting back her veil and glancing humorously towards the grave. “DEAR MISS, “I seed you at the Fisher Mat. on Friday last and you took my heart a treat. I’m only a young Gallery boy—wot’s in the flower trade. But I knows wot I knows—And you’re It. Oh Miss! I does want to see you act in Juliet in your own butey-ful ouse, if only you ad a seat as you could spare just for me and a pal o’ mine as is alright. I send you some red cars sweet and scenty fresh from Covent Market, your true-gone “BILL. “Hoping for tickets.” “Poor lad. Sally would have obliged him, I feel sure,” Canon Sinquier said. “Alas, what ephemeral creatures, Canon, we are.” “We are in His hands.” “She knew that. Sally’s faith never forsook her.... Oh, Canon, some day perhaps I may come to you to direct me. I’m so soul-sick.” “Is there no one in London to advise you?” “Nobody at all.” “Indeed? You astonish me.” “I’m perfectly tired of London, Canon!” “Your husband, no doubt, has his occupation there.” “My husband and I are estranged....” “You’ve no child?” “Alas, Canon! I often think ... sometimes ... I would like to adopt one. A little country buttercup! Really ... a dog, even the best of mannered—isn’t very _comme il faut._” “You seek a boy?” “Mer-cy _no_! Nothing of the sort.... You quite mistake my meaning.” “Your meaning madam was obscure.” “I imply a girl ... a blonde! And she’d share with me, sir, every facility, every advantage. Her education should be my care.” “What is your age?”