“One can’t know everybody,” remarked Milly witheringly. She considered this neat and sophisticated, wishing at the same time she had bought a dress with a low neck. She had as good shoulders as any one in the room. Besides, this was New York. She would buy a “low neck”—a “very low neck”—next day. She was glad she still had almost two hundred dollars left of Nat’s money. “But the Barrymores, Mrs. Forge. I mean Lionel and John.” “Are they brothers—or something?” “Yes,” collapsed the stout man. “Brothers? Oh, yes! Certainly!” “And who’s Peter Ibbet’s Son?” “Peter Ibbetson—_Ibbetson!_ A play, you know—at the Republic.” “Oh,” exclaimed Milly. “You’re talkin’ about a show. What kind of show is it? Funny?” “No. I wouldn’t call it funny. Although first night was rather amusing. One of the back drops caught somehow at the dark-change in the last act. Some of the scenery was in distressing danger of coming down on Barrymore’s bed.” “That oughta been a riot,” observed Milly. She felt her self-confidence returning again. She was, as it were, getting along famously. “We had a show like that once at the Opera House up to Paris. Some of the scenery fell flat and knocked the orchestra leader clean into the first violin. They couldn’t ring down the curtain. They couldn’t do nothin’. Just beller! Funniest part was, what different folks was doin’ behind the scenes when the thing went over. One man was changin’ his pants. He got outter sight awful quick!” The fat man roared. But the real reason for that roar entirely missed Milly. He wasn’t such a bad sort, after all. Mrs. Mosely observed that Milly had sprung a highly entertaining _bon mot_ and was amusing her near-by table companions greatly. She leaned forward. The fat gentleman, in fact, was growing purple in the face and giving alarming symptoms of sliding under the table. “Really, Mrs. Forge, you must tell us the joke,” suggested the hostess. “Yes, please do!” pleaded a few feminine voices. The attention of the diners thus being focused on herself, Milly colored scarlet and felt her scalp take fire. Conversation ceased. They were waiting. “I—I—this—this man and I—were talking about—a show that come to Paris one night,” stammered Milly. “That’s our home town—Paris! Up in Vermont, you know!” “I understand,” smiled Mrs. Mosely. Her onyx voice was at its best. “And what happened?” “Some of the scenery fell flat and knocked the piano player clean into the first violin. They couldn’t ring down the curtain. They couldn’t do nothing—on the stage, I mean—just holler. But the funniest part was what different folks happened to be doing at the moment the thing flopped over. One man was—one man was——” “Yes, my dear!” “_One man was changing his pants!_” gulped Milly. And waited for the explosion of applauding merriment.