As a general rule, guests can be made to double in other acts with peasants, gardeners, or policemen, but in this particular play there were no peasants, policemen, or gardeners; hence, to invite more than a select few to the Ambassadorial rout was a distinct extravagance. Nevertheless, it would not do if people got hold of the idea that he was cheese-paring. Accordingly, at the end of the matinée, he called the stage-manager, and addressed him as follows: “Mr. Manning, you will endeavour to find a girl and a young gentleman to walk on in the third act; the stage is not sufficiently dressed.” “Right you are, Guv’nor,” said the stage-manager. “There was a girl asking for a job at the stage-door five minutes ago. Nip down the road, Sydney, and try and catch the young lady.” Sydney, the call-boy, departed with speed, and came up with Mary at the corner of the street. “The Guv’nor wants to have a look at you, miss,” he said. “Might be a shop going.” With fluttering heart Mary retraced her footsteps, and was led by Sydney to that most hideous of structures, the back of the stage. But it was all wonderful to Mary, especially when she found herself within a few paces of the great Mr. Cardomay, irreproachably attired in evening-dress, with a velvet collar, and wearing many mystic orders on his white shirt front. Mr. Manning detached himself from his employer, who melted into the wings, and, twisting the card she had left at the stage-door between forefinger and thumb, approached her. To the tyro Mr. Manning was rather terrifying. His bowler hat, which he always wore either on the extreme back or the extreme front of his head, seemed menacing, as also did the extinguished cigarette which stuck to his lower lip and engaged upon the strangest evolutions as he spoke. “Y-e-es,” he said, looking her up and down. “Um! Of course I know what you can do. What have you done?” “Nothing,” said Mary, startled into speaking the truth. Mr. Manning sucked his teeth and shook his head. At this juncture Eliphalet Cardomay appeared from behind the scenery, and said: “All right, Manning, make the engagement. She will enter after the French Consul and his wife—cross down right and sit in chair below settee until music cue, then off; on again at finale by door right. Walk it through and see the wardrobe-mistress. Tell Boscombe to make a duration of tour contract.” And without another word he vanished into the shadows. “Am I really engaged?” panted Mary. “Is it a good part?” “No worse than other walk-on,” replied Manning. “Come on through this door; you’ll have to go on to-night, and I want some tea.” It is questionable whether the inclusion of Miss Eunice Terry at the Ambassador’s reception greatly improved the scene. For certainly never was a guest more awkward.