Stella Starcross—The Lady from the Sea—This evening, Betty Buttermilk and Co.—Rose Tournesol—Mr. and Mrs. Mary’s Season: The Carmelite—The Shop Boy—Clemenza di Tito. To-night! Miss Sinquier blinked. Meanwhile the family teapot was becoming a bore. Until the shops should open up it might be well to take a taxi and rest in the Park for an hour. The weather was clearing fast; the day showed signs of heat. She hailed a passing cab. “Hyde Park,” she murmured, climbing slowly in. She thrilled. Upon the floor and over the cushions of the cab was sprinkled fresh confetti—turquoise, pink and violet, gold and green. She took up some. As a mascot, she reflected, it would be equivalent to a cinqfoil of clover, or a tuft of edelweiss, or a twist of hangman’s rope. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VI FROM the big hotel in the vicinity of the Marble Arch, to the consulting rooms in Shaftesbury Avenue of Mrs. Albert Bromley, it appeared, on inquiry, that the distance might easily be accomplished in less than forty minutes. Miss Sinquier, nevertheless, decided to allow herself more. Garmented charmingly in a cornflower-blue frock with a black gauze turban trimmed with a forest of tinted leaves, she lingered uplifted by her appearance before the glass. The sober turban, no doubt, would suggest to Mrs. Bromley, Macbeth—the forest-scene, and the blue, she murmured, “might be anything.” It occurred to her as she left her room that Mr. Bromley might quite conceivably be there to assist his wife. “Odious if he is,” she decided, passing gaily out into the street. It was just the morning for a walk. A pale silvery light spread over Oxford Street, while above the shop fronts, the sun flashed down upon a sea of brass-tipped masts, from whence trade flags trembled in a vagrant breeze. Rejoicing in her independence, and in the exhilarating brightness of the day, Miss Sinquier sailed along. The ordeal of a first meeting with a distinguished dramatic expert diminished at every step. She could conjecture with assurance, almost, upon their ultimate, mutual understanding. But before expressing any opinion, Mrs. Bromley, no doubt, would require to test her voice; perhaps, also, expect her to dance and declaim. Miss Sinquier thrust out her lips. “Not before Albert! Or, at any rate not yet....” she muttered. She wondered what she knew. There was the thing from _Rizzio._ The Mistress of the Robes’ lament upon her vanished youth, on discovering a mirror unexpectedly, one morning, at Holyrood, outside Queen Mary’s door. Diamond, Lady Drummond, bearing the Queen a cap, raps, smiles, listens ... smiles, raps again, puts out her leg and rustles ... giggles, ventures to drop a ring, effusive facial play and sundry tentative noises, when catching sight of her reflection, she starts back with: