It seemed to me that there was something a little strange in Mr. Marx's manner and the way in which he kept glancing towards the door. Just at that moment someone knocked at the door. "Come in!" cried Mr. Isaacs. A lady obeyed his summons and swept into the room with a most unnecessary rustling of silk skirts. Mr. Isaacs welcomed her effusively. "Miss Fay, your most humble servant!" he exclaimed, bowing low. "Let me introduce two of my friends, Mr. Morton and Mr. Marx." The lady put out her ungloved hand, covered with a profusion of rings. "I know this young gentleman by sight," she said, in a loud and rather high-pitched tone. "You threw me those lovely flowers, didn't you? So good of you--awfully good! I've sent them home by my young woman." I stammered out some incoherent response and heartily wished myself a hundred miles away. What a disenchantment it was! I looked at her thickly pencilled eyebrows, at the smeared powder and paint which lay thick upon her face: at her bold, staring eyes, the crow's-feet underneath, which art had done what it could to conceal and failed; at the masses of yellow hair, which intuitively I knew to be false, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame that I should have been tricked into admiring her for a moment. Unfortunately, she put down my embarrassment to another cause, for it seemed partly to gratify, partly to amuse her. "My young friend and I admired your performance equally, Miss Fay, although, perhaps, he was the more demonstrative," said Mr. Marx, coming forward. "Will you accept the congratulations and thanks of a provincial who seldom has the pleasure of seeing such acting or hearing such a voice?" She thanked him with an affected little laugh, which suddenly died away and she looked into his face intently. "Haven't we met before?" she asked curiously. "There is something about your face or voice which seems familiar to me." He returned her gaze steadily, but shook his head with a slight smile. "I am afraid I may not claim that honour," he said. "If we had there could not possibly have been any uncertainty in my mind about it. It would have been a treasured memory." She looked doubtful, but turned away carelessly. "I suppose it is my mistake, then," she remarked. "You certainly seem to remind me of someone whom I have known. Fancy, perhaps. Mr. Isaacs, I came to beg for your escort home." (Here she shot a quick glance at me, which made my cheeks hot again.) "I have sent Julia on, and I can't go alone, can I, Mr. Morton?" she asked, turning to me. "I--I suppose not," I answered, devoutly wishing that Mr. Marx would take his departure. But, as though on purpose, he had gone to the other end of the room and had his back turned towards me.