Sally was tingling all over. This reminded her of the dog-fight on the Roville sands. She wanted to be in it, and only the recognition that it was a private fight and that she would be intruding kept her silent. The lure of the fray, however, was too strong for her wholly to resist it. Almost unconsciously, she had risen from her place and drifted down the aisle so as to be nearer the white-hot centre of things. She was now standing in the lighted space by the orchestra-pit, and her presence attracted the roving attention of Miss Hobson, who, having concluded her remarks on authors and their legitimate sphere of activity, was looking about for some other object of attack. “Who the devil,” inquired Miss Hobson, “is that?” Sally found herself an object of universal scrutiny and wished that she had remained in the obscurity of the back rows. “I am Mr. Nicholas' sister,” was the best method of identification that she could find. “Who's Mr. Nicholas?” Fillmore timidly admitted that he was Mr. Nicholas. He did it in the manner of one in the dock pleading guilty to a major charge, and at least half of those present seemed surprised. To them, till now, Fillmore had been a nameless thing, answering to the shout of “Hi!” Miss Hobson received the information with a laugh of such exceeding bitterness that strong men blanched and Mr. Cracknell started so convulsively that he nearly jerked his collar off its stud. “Now, sweetie!” urged Mr. Cracknell. Miss Hobson said that Mr. Cracknell gave her a pain in the gizzard. She recommended his fading away, and he did so--into his collar. He seemed to feel that once well inside his collar he was “home” and safe from attack. “I'm through!” announced Miss Hobson. It appeared that Sally's presence had in some mysterious fashion fulfilled the function of the last straw. “This is the by-Goddest show I was ever in! I can stand for a whole lot, but when it comes to the assistant stage manager being allowed to fill the theatre with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts it's time to quit.” “But, sweetie!” pleaded Mr. Cracknell, coming to the surface. “Oh, go and choke yourself!” said Miss Hobson, crisply. And, swinging round like a blue panther, she strode off. A door banged, and the sound of it seemed to restore Mr. Cracknell's power of movement. He, too, shot up stage and disappeared. “Hello, Sally,” said Elsa Doland, looking up from her magazine. The battle, raging all round her, had failed to disturb her detachment. “When did you get back?” Sally trotted up the steps which had been propped against the stage to form a bridge over the orchestra pit. “Hello, Elsa.” The late debaters had split into groups. Mr. Bunbury and Gerald were pacing up and down the central aisle, talking earnestly. Fillmore had subsided into a chair. “Do you know Gladys Winch?” asked Elsa.