“Which you did with a very bad grace, I am sure,” rejoined the doctor, with a smile. “Moral, don’t attempt to pry where you are not wanted.” “It’s utter rot!” reiterated Stannard, emphatically. “What would it hurt if I just went and wished her good evening?” But Geoffrey was secretly glad that the rules were so stringent, for they must save Celia the annoyance of interviewing many an undesirable visitor, he thought. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Celia was dressing for the second act. She would not have been so calm and collected, perhaps, had she known who was in the stalls. Her dresser was relating some of her humorous and varied experiences as she dexterously braided the girl’s long hair: and Celia, engaged in spoiling her complexion with grease-paint and powder, listened with genuine amusement. Mrs. Jackson had been chief dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at one time, and was very proud of the fact. Many were the tales she had to tell of the great actress’s kindly words and deeds. “Mrs. Potter Wemyss used to say,” was her favourite mode of beginning a sentence; and “just like Mrs. Potter Wemyss” her ideal of perfection. Had Celia not known the lady in question, she would probably have grown tired of her name, but being a personal friend, her interest never flagged. “You are ready early to-night, miss,” she said, as she put the finishing touches to Celia’s toilette. “It is a pity Mr. Haviland won’t let you see anybody. It would help to pass away the time. There’s that little Mr. Smiffkins always a-hanging round the stage door--the one who wears the overcoat with the tremendous fur collar and cuffs. He offered me a sovereign if I could get him an interview with you.” “Did he really? What a waste of money!” was Celia’s comment. “It’s rather a shame, though, miss, that Mr. Haviland is so strict. Why, you could have this room crammed full of flowers every show if he would let Jones take them in, not to mention boxes of chocolates and all manner of nice things. I don’t think as it’s right to deny an actress her perks. I should kick agen it if I was you, miss, that I would.” “But how could I possibly accept presents from people I don’t even know?” said the girl with wide-open eyes. “Surely Mrs. Potter Wemyss never did!” “Oh well, Mrs. Potter Wemyss is Mrs. Potter Wemyss. She’s got a great strapping husband six foot one in his stocking-feet, and they do say as he knows how to strike out with his fists. It wouldn’t do for young men to be sending _her_ flowers and billydoos. But you are quite another matter, miss, you are ‘free and unfettered,’ as it says in the play.”