There was a commendable silence during the performance, and in the chorus of "Thank yous" and "Lovelys" that followed Jessie led the singer to a girl with an "artistic" gown and prominent teeth, whom she introduced as "Miss Waterston, awfully fond of music." "Pleased to meet you," said Mr. Inverarity. "No," as Miss Waterston tried to make room for him, "I wouldn't think of crowding you. I'll just sit on this wee stool, if nobody has any objections." Miss Waterston giggled. "That was a lovely song of yours, Mr. Inverarity," she said. "I did enjoy it." "Thank you, Miss Waterston. D'you sing yourself?" "Oh, well," said Miss Waterston, smiling coyly at the toe of her slipper, "just a little. In fact," with a burst of confidence, "I've got a part in this year's production of the Sappho Club. Well, of course, I'm only in the chorus, but it's something to be even in the chorus of such a high-class Club. Don't you think so?" "And what," asked Mr. Inverarity, "is the piece to be produced?" "Oh! It's the _Gondoliers_, a kind of old-fashioned thing, of course. I would rather have done something more up to date, like _The Chocolate Box Girl_, it's lovely." "It is," Mr. Inverarity agreed, "very tuney; but d'you know, of all these things my wee favourite's _The Convent Girl_." "Fency!" said Miss Waterston, "I've never seen it. I think, don't you, that music's awfully inspiring? When I hear good music I just feel as if I could--as if I--well, you know what I mean." "I've just the same feeling myself, Miss Waterston," Mr. Inverarity assured her--"something like what's expressed in the words 'Had I the wings of a dove I would flee,' eh? Is that it?" and Mr. Inverarity nudged Miss Waterston with his elbow. The room was getting very hot, Mr. Thomson in his nervousness having inadvertently heaped the fire with coals. A very small man recited "Lasca" on the hearth-rug, and melted visibly between heat and emotion. "I say," said Mr. Stevenson to Miss Gertrude Simpson, "he looks like Casabianca. By the way, was Casabianca the name of the boy on the ship?" "I couldn't say, I'm sure," she replied, looking profoundly uninterested. "Do you go much to the theatre?" he asked her sister. "We go when there's anything good on," she said. "Such as----?" "Oh! I don't know----" She looked vaguely round the room. "Something amusing, you know, but quite nice too." "I see. D'you care for the Repertory?" "Oh, well," said Miss Muriel, "they're not bad, but they do such dull things. You remember, Gertrude," leaning across to her sister, "yon awful silly thing we saw? What was it called? Yes, _Prunella_. And that same night some friends asked us to go to _Baby Mine_--everyone says it's killing,--but Papa had taken the seats and he made us use them. It was too bad. We felt awfully 'had.'" "_I_ think," said Miss Gertrude, "that the Repertory people are very amateurish." Mr. Stewart Stevenson was stung.