be the great star of the future. I'm proud
that you've seen me."

"That of course is what I tell every one," Peter acknowledged a trifle
awkwardly to Miriam.

"I can believe it when I see you. _Je vous ai bien observee_," the
actress continued in her sweet conciliatory tone.

Miriam looked from one of her interlocutors to the other as if there
were joy for her in this report of Sherringham's remarks--joy
accompanied and partly mitigated, however, by a quicker vision of what
might have passed between a secretary of embassy and a creature so
exquisite as Mademoiselle Voisin. "Ah you're wonderful people--a most
interesting impression!" she yearningly sighed.

"I was looking for you; he had prepared me. We're such old friends!"
said the actress in a tone courteously exempt from intention: upon which
Sherringham, again taking her hand, raised it to his lips with a
tenderness which her whole appearance seemed to bespeak for her, a sort
of practical consideration and carefulness of touch, as if she were an
object precious and frail, an instrument for producing rare sounds, to
be handled, like a legendary violin, with a recognition of its value.

"Your dressing-room is so pretty--show her your dressing-room," he went
on.

"Willingly, if she'll come up. _Vous savez que c'est une montee."_

"It's a shame to inflict it on _you_," Miriam objected.

"_Comment donc?_ If it will interest you in the least!" They exchanged
civilities, almost caresses, trying which could have the nicest manner
to the other. It was the actress's manner that struck Miriam most; it
denoted such a training, so much taste, expressed such a ripe conception
of urbanity.

"No wonder she acts well when she has that tact--feels, perceives, is so
remarkable, _mon Dieu, mon Dieu!"_ the girl said to herself as they
followed their conductress into another corridor and up a wide, plain
staircase. The staircase was spacious and long and this part of the
establishment sombre and still, with the gravity of a college or a
convent. They reached another passage lined with little doors, on each
of which the name of a comedian was painted, and here the aspect became
still more monastic, like that of a row of solitary cells. Mademoiselle
Voisin led the way to her own door all obligingly and as if wishing to
be hospitable; she dropped little subdued, friendly attempts at
explanation on the way. At her threshold the monasticism stopped--Miriam
found herself in a wonde