When the curtain fell, the critics, who sometimes seem to enjoy personally what they call very sad and disgraceful in print, were smiling at one another. The blank faces of the men about town in the stalls were shining almost unctuously. The smart Americans were busily saying to everyone, “Didn’t we say so?” The whole house was awake. Miss Schley might not be much of an actress. Numbers of people were already bustling about to say that she could not act at all. But she had banished dulness. She had shut the yawning lips, and stopped that uneasy cough which is the expression of the relaxed mind rather than of the relaxed throat. Lady Holme sat back a little in the box. “What d’you think of her?” she said to Sir Donald. “I think she’s rather piquant, not anywhere near Granier, of course, but still--” “I think her performance entirely odious,” he said, with an unusual emphasis that was almost violent. “Entirely odious.” He got up from his seat, striking his thin fingers against the palms of his hands. “Vulgar and offensive,” he said, almost as if to himself, and with a sort of passion. “Vulgar and offensive!” Suddenly he turned away and went out of the box. “I say--” Lady Holme, who had been watching Sir Donald’s disordered exit, looked round to Leo. “I say--” he repeated. “What’s up with pater?” “He doesn’t seem to be enjoying the play.” Leo Ulford looked unusually grave, even thoughtful, as if he were pondering over some serious question. He kept his blue eyes fixed upon Lady Holme. At last he said, in a voice much lower than usual: “Poor chap!” “Who’s a poor chap?” Leo jerked his head towards the door. “Your father? Why?” “Why--at his age!” The last words were full of boyish contempt. “I don’t understand.” “Yes, you do. To be like that at his age. What’s the good? As if--” He smiled slowly at her. “I’m glad I’m young,” he said. “I’m glad you’re young too,” she answered. “But you’re quite wrong about Sir Donald.” She let her eyes rest on his. He shook his head. “No, I’m not. I guessed it that day at the Carlton. All through lunch he looked at you.” “But what has all this to do with Miss Schley’s performance?” “Because she’s something like you, but low down, where you’d never go.” He drew his chair a little closer to hers. “Would you?” he added, almost in a whisper. Mr. Laycock, who was in raptures over Miss Schley’s performance, had got up to speak to Fritz, but found the latter being steadily hypnotised by Mrs. Leo’s trumpet, which went up towards his mouth whenever he opened it. He bellowed distracted nothings but could not make her hear, obtaining no more fortunate result than a persistent flutter of pink eyelids, and a shrill, reiterated “The what? The what?” A sharp tap came presently on the box door, and Mrs. Wolfstein’s painted face appeared. Lord Holme sprang up with undisguised relief. “What d’you think of Pimpernel? Ah, Mr. Laycock--I heard your faithful hands.”