“Once I let myself go and ate a caramel before a concert,” the little wren related, between sips of tea. “Never shall I forget! I came out and sang My Lovely Celia. I had not sung much in English, and they were ready to notice anything. I sang on, ‘as lilies sweet, as soft as air,’ and when I came to soft—you know it is but a G, but a tiny, small, floated thing—my voice stuck, I strangled, and the whole hall choked for me! I could feel that caramel sticking to my cords!” Tea was over, and Joy knew that she must go. She managed to express her appreciation coherently, in spite of the fact that her hostess kissed her again. “When you return to New York, you must come here once more,” she said, and put Joy’s music back into the roll for her. “And when you are through with all your work, we will get you that hearing.” Joy rode back to the Belmont holding her music-roll gingerly. It was awesome, when you considered who had closed it. Would she ever want to open it again. . . . The queen of music had spoken as though her success were a matter of time. . . . Jerry was sitting by the window, looking out into the darkness; a desolate Jerry with her hair pulled back into a brush, leaving her white face without shading. “New York’s getting under my skin,” she said rapidly before Joy could speak; “there’s no use, Joy; it spells Phil Lancaster to me, and a lot of other things that do me no good to think about; I’ve got to get out of here.” Joy put down her music roll before coming nearer, and as Jerry’s eyes fell on it, she jumped up, shaking her hair until it fell about her face once more. “I’m a selfish fool! Tell me all about it—quick!” Joy had nearly finished her thrilling story when Jerry interrupted her. “Here’s a note they pushed under the door. I forgot to give it to you before.” It was a little hotel envelope containing the information that Mrs. Eustace Drew had called and would call again at six-thirty. Joy looked at her watch wildly. It was that now. “Does ‘will call at six-thirty’ mean in person, or by telephone?” she demanded. The telephone rang by way of answer, and a voice informed her that “Mrs. Drew was in the lobby.” “She might at least have spoken to me herself,” she grumbled, flying to the mirror. “Who?” said Jerry. “My New York cousin. Things always come in bunches with me!” Yes, Cousin Mabel certainly might have talked to her, if only to tell her what to expect, she thought as she went down to attack the lobby vaguely. But Cousin Mabel was standing by a pillar and came over to her immediately. “Joy?” she asked with a smile its recipient recognised as genuine: “Well, I think we should have known each other anywhere—or is it mere fond vanity that tells me we look alike?”