Lambert was playing in a costume piece, a mid-Georgian comedy that owed a great deal of its inspiration to Sheridan. In it he appeared as a beau of that elegant period, and as Alexandra on entering saw him she could but admit that he looked the part. Dressed in gorgeous brocade through which a dainty sword-hilt protruded, immaculately bewigged, lace-ruffled and overpoweringly scented, as she discovered on nearing him, he gave her the impression of extreme elegance, tempered by foppishness and effeminacy. He was sitting before the mirror on his dressing-table, leaning toward it, adding a deeper pencil mark to his eyebrows. When he had done that to his satisfaction he picked up a stick of carmine and deliberately touched up the curve of his lips before turning round to face his visitor. Alexandra had always felt an instinctive dislike of make-up on a man’s face, though she recognized it as essential to the stage. But Lambert’s attitude before the mirror was so affected, so vain that he instantly inspired her with contempt. "You come from my wife?" he asked, and she thought she detected a note of dismay in his fine-toned voice. "Did she send you?" "No," she answered. "But I want you to come down to her at once. She is very ill. I motored up so as not to lose a minute." He gave a slightly startled movement at her news. It was as though he shrank from hearing it. "I’m sorry to hear that," he said. "Where is she?" "At Eastbourne." "Is—is it serious?" "Very serious. They—" the words stuck in her throat—"they are operating now. She wished to see you. She was talking of you to me this morning—" She was interrupted by the entrance of a third person, a woman who came in without knocking, a woman, pretty beneath her paint, with curiously hard blue eyes. She stared at Alexandra with open hostility and then looked interrogatively at Lambert. "This lady has come up from Eastbourne," he hesitated. "My wife is ill and wants to see me." After a momentary silence the newcomer allowed herself a trifling shrug of the shoulders. "She has been ill before," she said a little contemptuously, and turned to Alexandra. "What is it this time? A bilious attack?" Alexandra looked at her steadily, perhaps disdainfully. She guessed she had to do with Mary Mantel, the woman who had displaced Mrs. Lambert in her husband’s affections. "We fear she is dying," was her rejoinder. The other woman laughed. "Oh, I see! Advertising her ’farewell to the stage.’ I daresay she will take her time over it." Lambert turned on her. "Be quiet!" he exclaimed irritably. Again she shrugged. "It’s our call directly." "I can’t help that. MacBride must go on for me." He picked up a towel and was about to remove the grease paint from his face, but stopped at the ejaculation that broke from her.