By Walter Sickert _Reproduced by Messrs. Carl Hentschel & Co._ [Illustration: A Lady Reading] Modern Melodrama By Hubert Crackanthorpe The pink shade of a single lamp supplied an air of subdued mystery; the fire burned red and still; in place of door and windows hung curtains, obscure, formless; the furniture, dainty, but sparse, stood detached and incoördinate like the furniture of a stage-scene; the atmosphere was heavy with heat, and a scent of stale tobacco; some cut flowers, half withered, tissue-paper still wrapping their stalks, lay on a gilt, cane-bottomed chair. "Will you give me a sheet of paper, please?" He had crossed the room, to seat himself before the principal table. He wore a fur-lined overcoat, and he was tall, and broad, and bald; a sleek face, made grave by gold-rimmed spectacles. The other man was in evening dress; his back leaning against the mantelpiece, his hands in his pockets: he was moodily scraping the hearthrug with his toe. Clean-shaved; stolid and coarsely regular features; black, shiny hair, flattened on to his head; under-sized eyes, moist and glistening; the tint of his face uniform, the tint of discoloured ivory; he looked a man who ate well and lived hard. "Certainly, sir, certainly," and he started to hurry about the room. "Daisy," he exclaimed roughly, a moment later, "where the deuce do you keep the note-paper?" "I don't know if there is any, but the girl always has some." She spoke in a slow tone--insolent and fatigued. A couple of bed-pillows were supporting her head, and a scarlet plush cloak, trimmed with white down, was covering her feet, as she lay curled on the sofa. The fire-light glinted on the metallic gold of her hair, which clashed with the black of her eyebrows; and the full, blue eyes, wide-set, contradicted the hard line of her vivid-red lips. She drummed her fingers on the sofa-edge, nervously. "Never mind," said the bald man shortly, producing a notebook from his breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it. He wrote, and the other two stayed silent; the man returned to the hearthrug, lifting his coat-tails under his arms; the girl went on drumming the sofa-edge. "There," sliding back his chair, and looking from the one to the other, evidently uncertain which of the two he should address. "Here is the prescription. Get it made up to-night, a table-spoonful at a time, in a wine-glassful of water at lunch-time, at dinner-time and before going to bed. Go on with the port wine twice a day, and (to the girl, deliberately and distinctly) you _must_ keep quite quiet; avoid all sort of excitement--that is extremely important. Of course you must on no account go out at night. Go to bed early, take regular meals, and keep always warm." "I say," broke in the girl, "tell us, it isn't bad--dangerous, I mean?" "Dangerous!--no, not if you do what I tell you." He glanced at his watch, and rose, buttoning his coat.