"Don't be niggards. Share the joke," came a husky drawl from behind them, as the long, but prodigious, Ellen Barnes sank into the nearest chair. An actress of the foremost rank, of greater personal than artistic appeal, her ample shoulders had assumed the regal mantle of Broadway. Her reign undisputed, her manner was more royal than the queen's. The Marchese smiled upon the intruder suavely. He thought her acting execrable, and knew she would be hissed off any worth-while French or Italian stage, but her regular, well-nourished beauty was reposeful, her languid air tickled his humor. "The Marchese was discussing feet," said Anne slyly, rather relieved at the interruption. The other woman stared incredulously. "Feet? Metrical or unpoetic like mine?" she threw out a large, but shapely foot, and regarded it with satisfaction. "Ellen, your vanity is incorrigible!" laughed Anne lightly as she rose. "But if you promise to be a good girl and not corrupt the Marchese I'll trust you alone with him for a while. They are waving to me from the piano." The Marchese surveyed her retreat with a whimsical smile. "I am very much frightened," he said, turning towards the delighted Ellen, who sprawled largely nonchalant upon her cushions. "Was it not Hedda Gabler to-night?" "Oh yes, a revival," exclaimed Ellen eagerly. "Do you think the part suits me?" The Marchese's reply was more than satisfactory. But his eyes followed the figure of the other woman. Her apple green dress, clinging closely about her, Anne was crossing the room. They will want me to dance, I suppose, she thought, looking about her with dissatisfaction. She felt suddenly un-at-home, almost ill at ease. The familiar surroundings still appealed with the claim of long association. The tempera walls still soothed, the carved Florentine furniture had lost no dignity, but somehow tonight the carefully chosen austerity rang false. Or was it merely that she was bored? Yes, bored almost to tears by the deafening prattle of the puppets she had gathered together? Yes, that was it. Why had she never sensed their incongruity so strongly before? She approached the multi-colored group at the piano and looked down into the face of the boy seated at the keyboard. Brilliant, degenerate, his playing just escaped the professional. As he returned her gaze, something wistful and defiant within the tired eyes suddenly struck at Anne's heart. Something that seemed to cry: "there is a devil within me, but I did not put him there. Besides, who cares?" Anne leaned over him. Her emerald earrings tinkled gaily in his face. A faint perfume swept his façile senses. "How goes it, Gerald?" she said quietly. "Oh, life's a dirge, as usual." A smile painted upon the wistfulness, he flung back his head and with distended nostrils seemed to inhale her into his consciousness. Then springing up, he held out his arms.