I have once seen Madame Ristori play Lady Macbeth. Her performance was recalled to me by the tones in which Mrs. Hilary asked: “Who is this woman, if you please, Mr. Carter?” “So Hilary got him off--gave him fifty pounds too.” “Glad to get him away, perhaps,” she burst out, in angry scorn. “Who knows?” said I. “Perhaps.” “Her name?” demanded Lady Macbeth--I mean Mrs. Hilary--again. “I shan’t tell you, unless you promise to say nothing to Hilary.” “To say nothing! Well, really--” “Oh, all right!” and I took up my hat. “But I can watch them, can’t I?” “As much as you like.” “Won’t you tell me?” “If you promise.” “Well, then, I promise.” “Look in the glass.” “What for?” “To see your face, to be sure.” She started, blushed red, and moved a step towards me. “You don’t mean--?” she cried. “Thou art the woman,” said I. “Oh, but he never said a word--” “Johnny had his code,” said I. “And in some ways it was better than some people’s--in some, alas! worse.” “And Hilary?” “Really you know better than I do whether I’ve told the truth about Hilary.” A pause ensued. Then Mrs. Hilary made three short remarks, which I give in their order: (1) “The little wretch!” (2) “Dear old Hilary!” (3) “Poor little man!” I took my hat. I knew that Hilary was due from the city in a few minutes. Mrs. Hilary sat down by the fire. “How dare you torment me so?” she asked, but not in the least like Lady Macbeth. “I must have my little amusements,” said I. “What an audacious little creature!” said Mrs. Hilary. “Fancy his daring!--Aren’t you astounded?” “Oh, yes, I am. But Hilary, you see--” “It’s nearly his time,” said Mrs. Hilary. I buttoned my left glove and held out my right hand. “I’ve a good mind not to shake hands with you,” said she. “Wasn’t it absurd of Hilary?” “Horribly.” “He ought to have been all the more angry.” “Of course he ought.” “The presumption of it!” And Mrs. Hilary smiled. I also smiled. “That poor old mother of his,” reflected Mrs. Hilary. “Where did you say she lived?” “Hilary knows the address,” said I. “Silly little wretch!” mused Mrs. Hilary, still smiling. “Goodbye,” said I. “Goodbye,” said Mrs. Hilary. I turned toward the door and had laid my hand on the knob, when Mrs. Hilary called softly: “Mr. Carter.” “Yes,” said I, turning. “Do you know where the little wretch has gone?” “Oh, yes,” said I. “I--I suppose you don’t ever write to him?” “Dear me, no,” said I. “But you--could?” suggested Mrs. Hilary. “Of course,” said I. She jumped up and ran towards me. Her purse was in one hand, and a bit of paper fluttered in the other. “Send him that--don’t tell him,” she whispered, and her voice had a little catch in it. “Poor little wretch!” said she. As for me, I smiled cynically--quite cynically, you know; for it was very absurd. “Please do,” said Mrs. Hilary. And I went. Supposing it had been another woman? Well, I wonder! AN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGE