“Oh, indeed!” cried that lady, with ironical politeness; “you’re monstrously wise about other people’s business, upon my word, sir. But, though I’ve seen a good deal of cool impudence in my life, I never witnessed cooler impudence than I’ve seen in this room to-night. If you knew what you were talking about, you’d know that I play Julia in the _Hunchback_, and Constance in the _Love-Chase_, and play nothing else. My dresses for those two characters were made for me by Madame Carabine Nourrisson, of Paris, and I should be sorry to tell you what they cost.” “I should be very sorry to hear it. I am too much of a political economist not to regret that money should be spent in that way. However, as you like the cream of the drama so much, Miss Courtenay, would it not be as well to try a little of the skim-milk? If you really want to be an actress, you cannot do better than extend your experience by some of the drudgery that Miss St. Albans has so industriously gone through.” “If I want to be an actress!” cried the outraged lady. “And pray who may have told you that I want to be an actress?” “If that is not your design, _que diable venez-vous faire dans cette galère_?” “I don’t understand Latin, and I don’t want to,” replied the fair Ida, with a venemous look at Mr. Desmond; “but I beg to tell you that I am a lady of independent means, and that I act for my own amusement, and the amusement of my friends.” “I have no doubt of the latter fact,” murmured Laurence, politely. “And I have no intention whatever of sinking to a poor, weak, trodden-down drudge, in limp white muslin, like some actresses I could mention.” “Indeed, Miss Courtenay! And are you aware that it is you, and ladies of your class, who bring discredit upon the profession which you condescend to take up for the amusement of your idle evenings? It is this--amateur--element which contaminates the atmosphere of our theatres, and the manager who fosters it is an enemy to the interests he is bound to protect.” “Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Miss Courtenay, who was very weak in a conversational tussle, where neither fierce looks nor strong language were admissible. And then, finding herself powerless against her unknown assailant, she turned with Medea-like ferocity upon the injured and innocent Manager. “I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. de Mortemar,” she cried; “since you are so mean-spirited as to let me be insulted in this manner, I beg you to understand that I shall never enter your theatre again--no, Mr. de Mortemar, not if you were to go down on your knees to me. And you may find some one else to play Julia, and you may let your private boxes yourself, if you can, which I know you can’t; and I have the honour to wish you good evening.”