“Stunnin’!” roared Lord Holme, “simply stunnin’!” “Stunnin’! stunnin’!” exclaimed Mr. Laycock; “Rippin’! There’s no other word. Simply rippin’!” “The what? The what?” cried Mrs. Ulford. Mrs. Wolfstein bent down, with expansive affection, over Lady Holme’s chair, and clasped the left hand which Lady Holme carelessly raised to a level with her shoulder. “You dear person! Nice of you to come, and in such a gown too! The angels wear white lace thrown together by Victorine--it is Victorine? I was certain!--I’m sure. D’you like Pimpernel?” Her too lustrous eyes--even Mrs. Wolfstein’s eyes looked over-dressed--devoured Lady Holme, and her large, curving features were almost riotously interrogative. “Yes,” Lady Holme said. “Quite.” “She’s startled everybody.” “Startled!--why?” “Oh, well--she has! There’s money in it, don’t you think?” “Henry,” who had accompanied his wife, and who was standing sideways at the back of the box looking like a thief in the night, came a step forward at the mention of money. “I’m afraid I’m no judge of that. Your husband would know better.” “Plenty of money,” said “Henry,” in a low voice that seemed to issue from the bridge of his nose; “it ought to bring a good six thousand into the house for the four weeks. That’s--for Miss Schley--for the Syndicate--ten per cent. on the gross, and twenty-five per cent.--” He found himself in mental arithmetic. “The--swan with the golden eggs!” said Lady Holme, lightly, turning once more to Leo Ulford. “You mustn’t kill Miss Schley.” Mrs. Wolfstein looked at Mr. Laycock and murmured to him: “Pimpernel does any killing that’s going about--for herself. What d’you say, Franky?” They went out of the box together, followed by “Henry,” who was still buzzing calculations, like a Jewish bee. Lord Holme resolutely tore himself from the ear-trumpet, and was preparing to follow, with the bellowed excuse that he was “sufferin’ from toothache” and had been ordered to “do as much smokin’ as possible,” when the curtain rose on the second act. Miss Schley was engaged to a supper-party that evening and did not wish to be late. Lord Holme sat down again looking scarcely pleasant. “Do as much--the what?” cried Mrs. Ulford, holding the trumpet at right angles to her pink face. Leo Ulford leant backwards and hissed “Hush!” at her. She looked at him and then at Lady Holme, and a sudden expression of old age came into her bird-like face and seemed to overspread her whole body. She dropped the trumpet and touched the diamonds that glittered in the front of her low gown with trembling hands. Mr. Laycock slipped into the box when the curtain had been up two or three minutes, but Sir Donald did not return. “I b’lieve he’s bolted,” Leo whispered to Lady Holme. “Just like him.” “Why?” “Oh!--I’m here, for one thing.” He looked at her victoriously. “You’ll have a letter from him to-morrow. Poor old chap!” He spoke contemptuously.