“Not a word, Miss Falcon!” cried she. Then in the tone of a sibyl: “Black and white; or yet all white. But if you listen to me, black _and_ white.” “I’ve no time to get any new gowns for the part,” said Miss Falcon. She had a slow, musical voice, with a ring in it as of tears never far off, yet never to be shed. “And if you’ll excuse me, Miss,” repeated the milliner, “Lady Teazle’s not your part, so to speak. Tragedy, that’s what you’re born to. Oh, your Mrs. Haller!” Pamela drew a sucking breath in reminiscence of last week’s thrills. “There! I’d never ask to enjoy anything more. Cry, I did. I couldn’t see out of my two eyes, I vow and protest, when I came forth out of the theatre. But if it’s got to be Lady Teazle, Madame, ’tis your one bit of tragedy I’m to dress your head for, as I understand it. And put colour on it--I declare I’d as soon stick a pink rosette on that there goddess with the lamp from Greece his Grace of Hampshire sets so much store by in his hall. Put yourself into white for it, Miss Falcon, and I’ll do you a hat that’ll show it off and you. When all’s said and done, ’twill be a symbol of what an innocent, poor young lady you are, so took in by that lying young gentleman, what I’d hiss off the boards every time he shows his vile, deceitful face, if I’d my will! La! men are base creatures,” cried Pamela out of her own bitterness. “White for your innocence, and the shadow of my broad brim over your eyes with a toss of white feathers atop, and just three black plumes standing up in the midst of them; the bit of tragedy that has come into your young life; one,” said Miss Pounce, “for the horrid danger you’ve escaped, and one for your poor deceived heart, and one for the remorse, like, over the goodness of that kind Sir Peter, making his will so generous and trusting, for all his ways ’ud be enough to drive any wife out of her wits. Those black feathers,” said the girl impressively, “will show you off, Miss Falcon, better than trumpet blasts.” Miss Falcon listened with an odd, abstracted look. “So you think I’m best in tragedy, do you?” she said, and sighed. “But I don’t want to be tragic, I want to be happy.” And then: “I’m late!” she cried impetuously. “You’ll have to bring me the hat to the theatre. I’ve scarce the time to get into my clothes.” A handsome private coach, with liveried footmen, was waiting for her at the door, and as Pamela accompanied her to the threshold, the actress looked back over her shoulder with a fugitive smile: “I’ll wear a white satin gown for the screen scene,” she said, stepped into the coach, and was whirled away. Pamela stood looking after her.