The dressing-room emptied itself, with a last struggle for the mirror, a few hurried applications of rouge, and a loosening of perfumes, while, above the pleasant rustle of skirts, the voice of Georgie Gwynne was heard in a stage whisper: "Remember, girls! Act refined!" Consuelo Vincent, under pretext of a cold, insisted on keeping a magnificent sable cape, which she shifted constantly the better to display it. On perceiving Busby arriving with this bouquet of vermilion smiles, polished teeth and flashing eyes, the Comte de Joncy, who had begun to be restless under the strain of serious conversation, brightened visibly, and holding out both hands, exclaimed with the practised familiarity of a patron of all the arts: "Why you make me wait so long? _Jolis petits amours!_ Ah, she is charming, this one. What a naughty little eye! Oho! something Spanish--do you dance the Bolero? Ah, but each is perfect--adorable! I could eat every one of them!" But to this royal affability the ladies of the chorus, very stiff, very correct, lisping a little, made answer: "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure!" "It's quite an unexpected pleasure!" "Indeed, most glad to meet you!" The introductions continued, and presently the room resounded with such phrases as these: "I hope we're not terribly late!... New York streets are so crowded!" "Delightful weather, don't you think?" "What a charming view!... I dote on views, don't you?" "Have you seen _Péléas and Mélisande_?" And Georgie Gwynne, picking her words with difficulty, was remarking to Harrigan Blood: "You're such a celebrity, Mr. Blood!... I'm tick ... I'm delighted to know you!" The Comte de Joncy, overcome by this flood of manners, said to his host: "The devil, _mon cher_ Sassoon, they overawe me! You are sure it is no mistake? It is not some of your dreadful wives?" "Wait!" said Sassoon, raising a finger. Busby, who knew their ways, arrived with a tray of cocktails, scolding them like a stage-manager: "Now, girls--girls! Unbend! Warm up, or His Highness will catch a cold! Come on, Consuelo, you've aired your furs enough; send them back--you give us a chill! This will never do! Now perk up, girls, do perk up!" Doré took the cocktail offered, and profiting by the stir, emptied it quickly behind her in the roots of a glowing orange tree. She raised her eyes suddenly to Massingale's. He had detected the movement, and was smiling. She made a quick, half-checked gesture of her arm, imploring his confidence, as, amused, he came to her side. "What a charming name, Miss Tennyson," he said, without reference to what he had seen. "Are you related?" She understood that he would not betray her. "Alfred's a sort of distant cousin," she said with a lisp, affecting a mannerism of the shoulders. "Of course, I haven't kept my full name--my full name is Rowena Robsart Tennyson; but that wouldn't do for the stage, would it? Trixie--Trixie Tennyson is chicker, don't you think?" "Is what?"