zz of admiration greeted the _distraite_ Lady
Angela, whose return from California had been acknowledged by but few of
the audience. She went through her scene with the little maid, and when
the doors were bumped together, Mr. Grimes of the Romance Languages, a
noted success at anagrams, acrostics, and charades, announced, "Dray."
After a few minutes the second act was done, in which it appeared that
Mr. Merriam the detective had fallen madly in love with Lady Angela. In
the midst of the scene the little maid was heard purring loudly
off-stage, a purring which was explained by both lovers as the purring
of the lost Persian. Mr. Grimes guessed "Purr" loudly at the close, and
the final syllable, in which Mr. Merriam appeared disguised as a draper,
was thus rendered stale and perfunctory. Mary's charade eluded Mr.
Grimes's wit no more successfully, and the music was received with even
more enthusiasm than usual.

The Lady Angela, as a matter of fact, had been considerably flustered by
the ardour of Merriam the detective's wooing. The rehearsal had not
prepared her for anything so realistic, and she was annoyed. Art was
art, of course, but she was no Duse, and she didn't care to be the
object of such public passion. The fact that she was obliged to
reciprocate his sentiments instead of slapping his face was also trying.
Well, there was no reason to conceal her displeasure now; and when she
found herself again in his arms--they were rather strong arms,
incidentally, and he did dance well--she had little to say to him.

It was not, fortunately, necessary for her to do a great deal of
dancing, because of the visiting she naturally owed to her elderly
friends, and once when Tom cut in she left him, excusing herself on the
ground of having to see the Dean and Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee, his
time-honoured bridge partner. The Dean took his bridge seriously and
with extreme deliberation. Henry Whitman, on the other hand, who was one
of his opponents, played with a rapidity amounting at times to frenzy,
and he was fidgeted by anyone of more sober pace. His partner, old Mrs.
Conover, in a cap with violet insertion, had some little difficulty in
telling kings from jacks and hearts from spades and was inclined,
furthermore, to be forgetful of the trump. Accordingly, Nancy remarked
beneath her brother's rather terrible calm all these symptoms of a
whistling bee when they were again at home.

The Dean was halfway through a hand and was