And Miss King said grace after that meat in a loud and aggressive voice, but Miss Juliet whispered a soft and sweet "Amen." On Monday morning Hyacinthe slipped from the house unseen. There was a vein of subtlety and finesse in her that came to the surface on occasion: it had been in Haidee Amic and in her ancestors. She repaired to a _maitre de ballet_, an old man who lived in an old house in the East End. "Can you learn to dance, mademoiselle--learn to dance 'superbly'?" repeated the danseur after his applicant. "Well, I should say no, most decidedly--never. You have not a particle of _chic_, coquetry: you were made for tragedy, mademoiselle, and not for the airy, indefinable graces of my art. You should devote yourself to the drama." Hyacinthe looked up, and the old Italian repeated his assertion, adding a recommendation to seek an interview with Mr. Arbuthnot, the proprietor and manager of one of the principal theatres. Before Hyacinthe returned to the little domicile in Craven street she had been enrolled as a member of the company of this temple of the dramatic art. Arbuthnot was speculative, and withal lucky: he had never brought out even a "successful failure," and a something in this odd young woman's beauty, earnestness, frankness, pleased him. He gave her the "balcony scene," of course, to read to him; noted her poses, which were singularly felicitous; knew at once that she was not cast for the lovesick Veronese maiden; was surprised to discover that she was quite willing to follow his advice--to begin in small parts and work her way up if possible. The shrewd London manager foresaw triumphs ahead when the insignificant "Miss H. Leroy" should pass into the actress Hyacinthe King. "Aunts, I went out by myself," the girl says as she dawdles shyly over her newly-acquired habit of tea-drinking that evening, "because I knew--I fancied--that you, Aunt Juliet, would not care to go with me where I was going." "Yes, dear," says Miss Juliet, glad to have the curious child of her favorite brother back with her in safety. "A foolish and an unwarrantable step, Hyacinthe, which I trust--I trust--you will never repeat." Thus Miss King, adding with severity, "May I inquire, Hyacinthe, where you went?" "To Bozati the ballet-master first." "To whom?" Miss King draws forth an old-fashioned salts-bottle, and Miss Juliet glances nervously at the tea-tray. "To whom? Can it be possible that my niece, your father's daughter--No, no! my ears deceive me." "He said I never could learn to be anything more than a coryphee, aunt, and I knew that that would not be accounted an art," she says quite low. "But I then went to Mr. Arbuthnot. You know him, aunt?" "I have heard of such a person," answers Miss King, peering austerely over her spectacles at Hyacinthe.