They gathered about her in the wings and sought the favour of her smile. Neither did they seek in vain, for Mornice had a quality of responsiveness that caused all who came in contact with her to believe themselves vital to her well-being. Did they come with jests, her laughter was light-hearted and unstinted; did they come in sorrow, she was quick to sympathise, and real tears would moisten her lashes. An extremely sensitive person was Mornice, who answered every vibration about her—be it grave or gay. Not in mood alone but in outline, her entire being seemed to impregnate itself with the spirit of the moment. She would break off suddenly in the merriest laugh to respond to a bar of music wailing pathetically from a hidden violin. “Just listen! Isn’t it wonderful!” she would say, transformed into a picture of rapt adoration. Then in a second she was back again to her faun-like merriment, exchanging jokes that a properly brought up young lady would have failed to understand. “Who is the little lady yonder?” Eliphalet asked. Miss Helen Winter threw a flickering glance in the direction of his gaze. “I _really_ couldn’t tell you, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay, for I don’t know. A nice little thing, no doubt, but hardly a lady. She gives me the impression of being on the stage for the purpose of earning a living.” This was too subtle for Eliphalet, and he asked for an explanation. “I mean she has no people—no money. She acts for a livelihood. Of course that is purely a surmise, but I am sure I am right. The stage is full of young girls who are trying to earn their living. It is very sad, when one comes to think of it.” Being herself a dweller in Park Street, with no real occasion to act, Miss Winter was one of the rapidly increasing class who make it impossible for the really needy to find employment. Eliphalet was blissfully ignorant of the methods London managers had begun to use. He did not know that it had become quite _de rigueur_ to engage society ladies to play leading parts, irrespective of talent and merely for the sake of the smart friends they attracted. It is the Box Office that counts, first, last and always. Remember that, some of you clever young ladies, before you abandon the typewriter or the comfortable certainty of the Insurance Office. “To me,” he said, “that stands to her credit. She strikes me as a most charming little girl.” “Oh, quite—quite, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay, but provincial—very, very provincial.” And having delivered this two-edged thrust, she sailed away to pastures new. So Eliphalet asked the same question of Polonius. “Mornice June, her name is. Something in her, I fancy. Forget who told me she’s been earning her living since she was fourteen. Her people were a bad lot—deserted her—so they say.” Eliphalet did not need to introduce himself, for the very next day Mornice marched up and gave him a cheery smile.