The waiter stared; Francis stared. The tea was a novelty (in connection with maraschino) to both of them. Careless whether she surprised them or not, she instructed the waiter, when her directions had been complied with, to pour a large wine-glass-full of the liqueur into a tumbler, and to fill it up from the teapot. “I can’t do it for myself,” she remarked, “my hand trembles so.” She drank the strange mixture eagerly, hot as it was. “Maraschino punch—will you taste some of it?” she said. “I inherit the discovery of this drink. When your English Queen Caroline was on the Continent, my mother was attached to her Court. That much injured Royal Person invented, in her happier hours, maraschino punch. Fondly attached to her gracious mistress, my mother shared her tastes. And I, in my turn, learnt from my mother. Now, Mr. Westwick, suppose I tell you what my business is. You are manager of a theatre. Do you want a new play?” “I always want a new play—provided it’s a good one.” “And you pay, if it’s a good one?” “I pay liberally—in my own interests.” “If _I_ write the play, will you read it?” Francis hesitated. “What has put writing a play into your head?” he asked. “Mere accident,” she answered. “I had once occasion to tell my late brother of a visit which I paid to Miss Lockwood, when I was last in England. He took no interest at what happened at the interview, but something struck him in my way of relating it. He said, ‘You describe what passed between you and the lady with the point and contrast of good stage dialogue. You have the dramatic instinct—try if you can write a play. You might make money.’ _That_ put it into my head.” Those last words seemed to startle Francis. “Surely you don’t want money!” he exclaimed. “I always want money. My tastes are expensive. I have nothing but my poor little four hundred a year—and the wreck that is left of the other money: about two hundred pounds in circular notes—no more.” Francis knew that she was referring to the ten thousand pounds paid by the insurance offices. “All those thousands gone already!” he exclaimed. She blew a little puff of air over her fingers. “Gone like that!” she answered coolly. “Baron Rivar?” She looked at him with a flash of anger in her hard black eyes. “My affairs are my own secret, Mr. Westwick. I have made you a proposal—and you have not answered me yet. Don’t say No, without thinking first. Remember what a life mine has been. I have seen more of the world than most people, playwrights included. I have had strange adventures; I have heard remarkable stories; I have observed; I have remembered. Are there no materials, here in my head, for writing a play—if the opportunity is granted to me?” She waited a moment, and suddenly repeated her strange question about Agnes. “When is Miss Lockwood expected to be in Venice?” “What has that to do with your new play, Countess?”