Lord Chandos, raising his head, bestows a haughty stare upon the youthful Chips, which is quite thrown away, as that gay young Don is staring in turn, with all his might, and with the liveliest admiration, at Miss Beatoun. "Could you?" asks that fascinating person, innocently "Now I could not; at least I think I would like to sit down now and then. But, Phyllis, dear, seriously, I wish we were going to do something out of the common this evening." "Try charades or tableaux," suggests 'Duke brilliantly. "The very thing! Tableaux let it be, by all means. Marmaduke, no one can say last night's dissipation has clouded your intellect. We will have them in the library, where the folding-doors will come in capitally." "You used to be a great man at tableaux, Carrington," says Sir George; "and I shall never forget seeing Lady Blanche once as Guinevere." Her ladyship raises her white lids and smiles faintly. "You were Lancelot, Gore, on that occasion," continues this well-meaning but blundering young man. "You remember, eh?" "Distinctly--quite as if it happened yesterday," replies Sir Mark, with a studied indifference little suited to the emphatic words. "Have some of this hot cake, Thornton? You are eating nothing." "Thanks: I don't know but I will," says Chips, totally unabashed. "You could hardly give me anything I like so well as hot cake for breakfast." "You will make a point of remembering that, I trust, Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark, gravely. "Phyllis, you would look such a good Desdemona," says Bebe, who is now fairly started. "I am sure she must have been _very_ young to let herself be beguiled into a marriage with that horrid Othello." "And who would represent the Moor?" "Sir Mark, I suppose: he looks more like it than any one else." "You flatter me, Miss Beatoun," murmurs Sir Mark, with a slight bow. "Oh, I only mean you are darker than any of the others, except James, and I am sure he never could look sufficiently ferocious," answers Bebe, laughing. "And you think I can?" "You will have to. When we have blackened you a little, and bent your eyebrows into a murderous scowl, and made you look thoroughly odious, you will do very well." "How one _does_ enjoy the prospect of tableaux. I rather think I shall rival Salvini by the time I am out of your hands." "I hope not. I can't bear Salvini," says Harriet, mildly. "That is going rather far, Harry. Why don't you say you can't bear his figure? We _might_ believe that." "But I don't want to be smothered," I protest, nervously. "Oh, you _must_ submit to that. When people hear of 'a scene from "Othello"' they immediately think of pillows. They would consider they had been done out of something if we gave them a mere court part. We will have you just dying, murmuring your last poor little words, with Sir Mark looking as if he were longing to try the effect of the bolster next, and Miss Vernon, as Emilia, kneeling beside you."