perambulator, has taken out her paper-covered volume, and is deep in a
story of blood and woe. And Baby, a sleepy, pink rosebud, dozes among her
white embroidered pillows, undisturbed by Red Umbrella's shrill
exclamation:

"Sorry for her! Why on earth should you be?"

The shriek startles Lynette. She brings back her grave eyes from the
distance, flushing faint coral pink to the red-brown waves at her fair
temples.

"She--she had on so few clothes!" she says. And there is a profound
silence, broken by Lessie's saying with icy dignity:

"If the Lord Chamberlain opined I'd got enough on, I expect that ought to
do for you!"

"I--don't quite understand."

Lynette opens her golden eyes in sincere wonder at the marvellous change
that has been wrought in the little lady who sits beside her.

"_I_ am Miss Lessie Lavigne," says the little lady, with an angry toss of
the pretty head, adorned with the wistaria-trimmed hat. "At least, that is
the name I am known by in the profession."

"I beg your pardon," Lynette falters. "I did not recognise you. I am
afraid you must think me rather rude!"

"Oh, pray don't mention it!" cries the owner of the red umbrella.
"Rude?--not in the least!"

Mere rudeness would be preferable, infinitely, to the outrage the little
lady has suffered. She, Lessie Lavigne, the original exponent of the role
of "The Chiffon Girl," the idol of the pit and gallery, Queen regnant over
the hearts beating behind the polished shirt-fronts in the stalls, has
lived to hear herself pitied--not envied, but commiserated--for the
scantiness of the costume in which it is alike her privilege and her joy
to trill and caper seven times in the week before her patrons and adorers.
Small wonder that she feels her carefully-manicured nails elongating with
the desire to scratch and rend.

Then she reveals the chief arrow in her quiver. Not for nothing is she the
widow of an English nobleman. With all the hereditary dignities of the
Foltlebarres she will arm herself, and reduce this presuming stranger to
the level of the dust. At the thought of the humiliation it is in her
power to inflict she smiles quite pleasantly, displaying a complete double
row of beautifully stopped teeth. And she says, as she fumbles in a
chatelaine bag of golden links, studded with turquoises, and with
elaborately ostentatious dignity produces therefrom a card-case, as
precious as regards material, and emblazoned with a monogram and coronet,
e