He sat smoking on a window seat of the library and tried to follow the rehearsal at the other end of the wide room. The men and girls strode about talking loudly. A slender man in grey broke the chatter from time to time and gave directions in a level, pleasing voice. This must be Cosmo Rand, the husband of Cora Boyle. Gurdy looked at him with interested scorn but the amateurs took his orders in docile peace and only Margot answered him from a deep green chair, “Rot, Cossy! I’m supposed to be lost in thought, aren’t I? Then I shan’t look interested when Stella giggles. Go on, Stella.” Gurdy became intent on her posture in the dark chair. She was smoking and her hair appeared through the vapour like solid, carved substance. She seemed fixed, a black and yellow figure on the green. A vaporous halo rose in the lamplight above her head. He stirred when she spoke again, shifting, and a silver buckle sent a spark of light flitting across the rug. He remembered that she had Italian blood from her grandmother. She looked Italian. Mark was right. She was beautiful in no common fashion. The other girls vibrating against the shelves were mere bodies, gurgling voices.--The butler stole down the room and spoke to Cosmo Rand who, in turn, spoke aloud. “I say, Margot, Cora’s brought the motor around. Might I have her in? Chilly and she’s been feeling rather seedy.” A tall woman in black velvet entered as if this were a stage and reposed herself in a chair. Gurdy had never seen Cora Boyle perform. She was familiar from pictures when she drew up a veil across an obvious beauty of profile and wide eyes. Presently she commenced a cigarette and the motion of lighting it was admirably effected. An expanding, heavy scent of maltreated tobacco welled from the burning roll between her fingers. The line of her brows was prolonged downward with paint. The whole mask was tinted to a false and gleaming pallor. Grey furs were arranged about the robustness of her upper body. She was older than Mark, Gurdy’s father said. She must be passing forty. She should be weary of tight slippers. A glance stopped Gurdy’s meditation. He looked away at Margot’s effortless stroll along the imagined footlights. Cora Boyle spoke to him in a flat and pinched whisper. “Isn’t your name Bernamer?” He bowed. She came to sit with him on the window seat and dusted ash from her cigarette into the Chinese bowl. Her eyes explored his face with a civil amusement. “You look awfully like your father. You startled me. Let me see.... You and Miss Walling live with Mark, don’t you? Sweet, isn’t she? And how is Mark? I’ve played over here so long that I’ve rawther lost touch. Mr. Carlson’s still alive?” “Oh, yes. He’s bedridden, you know? Lives with Mark.” She inhaled smoke, nodding.