"Then I propose we begin at once," he announced. "The second act to-night, then, if we have time, the third act--from the book. And I expect the second act to be letter-perfect--let-ter-per-fect. There is nothing there but that." He held up his hand, as if to refuse to consider the least dissention. "There is nothing but that--no other thing." All but Corthell listened attentively. The artist, however, turning his back, had continued to talk to Laura without lowering his tone, and all through Monsieur Gerardy's exhortation his voice had made itself heard. "Management of light and shade" ... "color scheme" ... "effects of composition." Monsieur Gerardy's eye glinted in his direction. He struck his play-book sharply into the palm of his hand. "Come, come!" he cried. "No more nonsense. Now we leave the girls alone and get to work. Here is the scene. Mademoiselle Gretry, if I derange you!" He cleared a space at the end of the parlor, pulling the chairs about. "Be attentive now. Here"--he placed a chair at his right with a flourish, as though planting a banner--"is the porch of Lord Glendale's country house." "Ah," murmured Landry, winking solemnly at Page, "the chair is the porch of the house." "And here," shouted Monsieur Gerardy, glaring at him and slamming down another chair, "is a rustic bench and practicable table set for breakfast." Page began to giggle behind her play-book. Gerardy, his nostrils expanded, gave her his back. The older people, who were not to take part--Jadwin, the Cresslers, and Aunt Wess'--retired to a far corner, Mrs. Cressler declaring that they would constitute the audience. "On stage," vociferated Monsieur Gerardy, perspiring from his exertions with the furniture. "'Marion enters, timid and hesitating, L. C.' Come, who's Marion? Mademoiselle Gretry, if you please, and for the love of God remember your crossings. Sh! sh!" he cried, waving his arms at the others. "A little silence if you please. Now, Marion." Isabel Gretry, holding her play-book at her side, one finger marking the place, essayed an entrance with the words: "'Ah, the old home once more. See the clambering roses have--'" But Monsieur Gerardy, suddenly compressing his lips as if in a heroic effort to repress his emotion, flung himself into a chair, turning his back and crossing his legs violently. Miss Gretry stopped, very much disturbed, gazing perplexedly at the coach's heaving shoulders. There was a strained silence, then: "Isn't--isn't that right?" As if with the words she had touched a spring, Monsieur Gerardy bounded to his feet.