The ironwork upon which she mounted was a somewhat complicated piece of machinery, a telescope in three parts, requiring nice adjustment on the part of the stage carpenter. It was perfectly safe if properly worked; but a hitch, the slightest carelessness in the working, would be perilous, and might be fatal. ‘I don’t like that business by any means,’ said Jack Chicot, when he saw his wife ascending to the sky borders, in the dust and gloom of rehearsal, clad in her practising petticoats, and with a lace-bordered handkerchief tied under her chin, like a coquettish nightcap. ‘It looks dangerous. Can’t you dispense with it, Smolendo?’ ‘Impossible; it’s the great feature of the scene. Perfectly safe, I assure you. Roberts is the best carpenter in London.’ Mr. Smolendo’s people were always the best. He had a knack of getting first-rate talent in every line, from his prima donna to his gasman. ‘He seems clever, but rather a queer-tempered man, I hear.’ ‘Talent is always queer-tempered,’ answered Smolendo, lightly. ‘Amiability is the redeeming virtue of fools.’ Mr. Chicot was not convinced. He took his wife aside presently in a grove of dingy wings and side pieces, and entreated her to refuse that ascent in the coral bower. ‘_Pas si bête_,’ she answered, curtly. ‘I know what suits me. I shall look lovely in that coral frame with my hair down. You needn’t be frightened, my friend. _Pas de danger._ Or, if I should be killed--come, I don’t think that would break your heart. It’s a long time since you’ve left off caring for me as much as that.’ She snapped her fingers under his nose, with one of those little audacious movements of hers which were infinitely fascinating--to strangers. Jack Chicot shuddered visibly. Yes, it was horribly true. Her death would be his release from bondage. Her death? Would he know himself, believe in his own identity, if she were gone, and he was free to walk the world again, his own master, with hopes and ambitions of his own, bearing his own name, not ashamed to look mankind in the face, no longer known as the husband of La Chicot? He persuaded her earnestly to have nothing to do with the ironwork that had been made to bear her to the theatrical skies. Why should she run such a risk? Any ballet-girl would do as well, he argued. ‘Yes, and the ballet-girl would show off her good looks, and get all the applause. I am not such a fool as to give her the chance. Don’t waste your breath in talking about it, Jack. I mean to do it.’ ‘Of course,’ he said bitterly. ‘When did you ever renounce a caprice to please me?’ ‘Perhaps never. I am a creature of caprices. It was a caprice that made me marry you, a caprice that made you marry me, and now we are both honestly tired. That’s a pity, isn’t it?’ ‘I try to do my duty to you, my dear,’ he answered gravely, with a sigh.