She turned to the man with the horn-rim spectacles. "That is all?" she inquired. "All for today, Miss Carrillo, thank you," she was answered. "Tomorrow at 2, same costume, but on the other set." "Come," she said, turning to John. "We'll have tea and a talk as soon as I return to--to normalcy--that was Mr. Harding's way of expressing it, wasn't it?" She led the way across the floor, along a twisting and turning path, through furniture, furnishings and an accumulation of "props" to the door. As they stepped out into the daylight again her face was more unlike the face of the Consuello John knew than it had been in the half gloom inside. They crossed a narrow asphalt-paved road to a long two-story building. "I won't be long," she said, opening the door to the section in which her dressing room was located. "When I'm ready the maid will call you. Will you wait here?" "Don't hurry," he said. "I'll be right here where you left me." While he was waiting "John J. Silence" emerged from the door of the stage building. John frowned, pressed his forefinger to his lips in the signal for silence that he had received inside. "John J. Silence," grinning, tiptoed away with ludicrous gestures. In twenty minutes the maid called John to the door, holding it open for him as he entered. "This way, please," she said, taking the lead. A dozen steps brought them to a door marked with Consuello's name. John paused at the threshold while the maid entered, returning in a moment to hold the door open for him again. As he stepped inside she went out into the corridor, closing the door after her. John found himself in a tiny room with brightly designed wallpaper, matted rugs, a wicker chaise longue, wicker glass-topped table, wicker tea wagon and wicker chairs, all decorated in a gay colored chintz. The heavy curtains at one side of the room parted, and Consuello--the real Consuello again--stood before him attired in a tailored suit gorgeous in its simplicity, setting off a dainty real biche lace and batiste blouse. "Well?" she said, as if she had been waiting for him to speak. "I'll say it again--you're beautiful," he said. The same half credulous look that she had given him when he told her she was beautiful that day they met for the first time at the Barton Randolph lawn fete came into her eyes. "I did not mean to ask you that," she said. "I know," he returned, "but you are, and I couldn't help saying so." She took a chair near the tea-table and he seated himself in the chair that was opposite to her. "I meant, what do you think of me now?" she explained, pouring the tea into absurdly small cups, one of which she handed to him. "It was a surprise," he said. "I'll confess to you now that you puzzled me. I could not understand why you were--well, exiled in the city during the week. I imagined you were either with friends as a sort of a permanent guest or studying." "You never thought of me as working?" she asked.