"One or two things still. A little Parisian dressmaker, who would come over and set up in England to teach English women to hold their dresses up in the street, ought to make a fortune in no time. It is the most graceful, artistic, and typical movement of the French woman." "On the other hand, my dear Gerald," said Dora, "French women mince or trot or proceed, English women walk. We are their superiors in many things." "We might make comparisons without end, and finally be sorely puzzled where to award the prize." Here the servant announced "Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith." "Smythe--not Smith," said the new arrival, indignantly turning to the domestic. "That is the mother of Lady Gampton," whispered Lorimer to Dora. Dora rose and went to shake hands with her. "I am a little late," she said; "I have been to the Queen's Theatre to see _Majella_. It is a play that will draw crowded houses till the end of next season. You have seen it, of course." "Yes," said Dora, "I was at the first night--allow me to introduce its author--Mr. Gerald Lorimer." "What a pleasure to meet you!" said she, as Lorimer came forward and bowed. "I congratulate you sincerely; your play is a _chef-d'oeuvre_. The house was packed to-night, and the enthusiasm boundless." "I am happy the public appreciate the play," said Lorimer, bowing his acknowledgments of her compliments. "_Majella_ will place our old friend in the front rank of the dramatic authors of the day." "And fill his coffers to the brim," said the American lady, with a knowing glance, which meant, "that is the main thing." Lorimer and Dora exchanged comprehensive looks. The lady's wink had explained in one flash the motto of New York. Not _who are you?_ nor _what are you?_ nor yet _what have you done?_ but _how much do you make?_ Loud and evidently sincere applause was heard coming from the smaller drawing-room where the concert was being given. Presently there appeared, making towards the staircase, a tall fair young man who replied by smiles and repeated bows to the bravos which were accorded to him by this _blasé_ audience of people, little accustomed to lavish applause on anyone. It was Schowalski, a well-known pianist who came to London every year to give a concert, and play in drawing-rooms during the season. At a certain distance, Schowalski's head recalled that of his celebrated compatriot and confrère Paderewski; however, he had not the delicate, finely chiselled profile which gives the latter his striking and unforgetable physiognomy. Taller, more vigorous, more solidly and massively built, with long light hair, straight and thick, and his enormous moustache falling in a semicircle around the mouth, he might have sat for Brennus or Vercingetorix. Dora held out her hand as he was about to go downstairs. "Thanks a thousand times," said she; "you have played like an angel." And she introduced him to the American lady still at her side.