The set was a bedchamber. Through a half-open door showed the suggestion of a tiled bathroom. Another door and the two windows were closed. Once the eyes became accustomed to the indeterminate light, they made out rare hangings and furniture that looked to wear the stamp of Louis XIV. Beneath the satin coverlet of the bed, an elongated lump suggested a human figure asleep. Upon one pillow a lace cap indicated rather than covered a mass of murky hair. For minutes the orchestral rendition of Schumann’s _Traumerei_ was the only action of the piece. In time the pantomime of a morning’s awakening began--a shudder of the coverlet, a stretching of legs beneath and rounded arms above. The face which uplifted from its background of locks and lace suggested a loathful emergence from dreams. With some degree of energy a hand reached out and pressed a bell. That accomplished, the luxurious sleeper slipped beneath the eider-down and again drowsed off. The entrance of a soft-treading, black-garbed, middle-aged maid brought diversion. Her lips moved in a supposed good-morning. She drew up the window blinds, flooding the room with light. Her disappearance into the bathroom was followed by the plash of water in a tub. Her simulation of annoyance on returning to the bedside, to find the dreamer reclaimed, was a nice histrionic bit. She reminded; urged; finally shook. At last the lady of lethargy, smiling deliciously, aroused to a sitting posture. The thrown coverlet bared two rosy feet for the enclosure of satin mules. She deserted the nest of the night, crossed the room front stage and stood with arms uplifted as an aid to her yawns. The spotlight found her some seconds before the maid could throw over her a bathrobe of silk so pliant that it might have been drawn through a bracelet. Inhalations and forward-leanings moved the audience. Indeed, there was cause for comment. The daring of Seff in his presentation, the novelty of the crêpe sleeping-gown which, innocent of _filet_ or ribbons, depended solely upon its Empire lines and girdling silken cord--even the type of the model was rare. Pretty of face beyond question, with a luminous sort of pallor, red lips delicately full and purplish, child-wide eyes, she stood revealing through the sheer a body both slender and rounded. Discussions of her as frank as they were low-pitched proved that the pantomime was “taking” from the start. John Cabot was of the few who suppressed remark, but none watching him could have doubted his interest. Catherine curved an amused smile at him. “_Et tu, Brute_,” she murmured. At first from natural endowment and later from deliberate effort, John always had believed in the virtue of women until compelled to disbelieve. To-day he was studying neither the exquisite, hand-stitched garment nor the “points” of the manikin who wore it.