Dispirited, I went only from a sense of duty. It turned out to be one of the fine parties of the entire tour; but I was fatigued, distraught, and the de Valois contretemps still oppressed me. I helped myself to some food, and hid away in a corner. I was, to put it bluntly, in a vile mood. Again I felt my coat tails being tugged. “Who is it this time?” I thought. It was not my favorite manner of being greeted, I decided, there and then. Cautiously I turned. Again it was “Madame.” “What’s the trouble?” she asked, now all solicitude. “Why are you hiding in a corner? You don’t look well. Shouldn’t you see a doctor?” “I don’t need a doctor.” “Surely, something is wrong with you. You look pale, and it’s not the very least bit like you to be off sulking in a corner. What’s the trouble?” “The insult to you,” I said. I remembered what Hughes had said, when “Madame” replied: “Insult? Insult?... What insult? Did you insult me?... What on earth _are_ you talking about?” There was no point, I felt, in reminding her of the incident. “When you want to speak to me,” I said, “must you pull my coat off my back?” “The next time I shall do it harder,” she said with her very individual little laugh. “Don’t you think we have been here long enough?... Come along now, take us home.” This is Ninette de Valois. * * * * * Following the San Francisco engagement, the company turned east to the Rocky Mountain area, the South and Middle West, to arrive in Chicago for Christmas. The Chicago engagement was but a repetition of every city where the company appeared: sold-out houses, almost incredible enthusiasm. _The Sleeping Beauty_ was the opening programme. Because of the magnitude of the production, it was impossible to present it except in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and Boston. Both public and press were loud in their praises of the company, the production, the music. Another delightful piece of hospitality was the party given at the Racquet Club in Chicago, following the first performance by Ruth Page, the well-known American dancer and choreographer, and her husband, Thomas Hart Fisher. Not only was there a wonderful champagne supper in the Club’s Refectory, at which the members of the company were the first to be served; but this was followed by a cabaret, the climax of which came when Margot, in a striking Dior gown of green, stepped down to essay the intricate steps of a new and unknown (to her) South American ball-room rhythm. She had never before seen or heard of the dance, but it was a joy to watch the musicality she brought to it.