a sharp nod. He hesitated, and began to look
supremely uncomfortable, twisting the bouquet of carnations round and
round in nervous hands.

"I've been simply expiring all season to hear you sing," Miss Schley
continued.

"How sweet of you!"

"That is so. Mr. Ulford, please bring my flowers."

Leo had no alternative but to obey. He came slowly towards the sofa,
while the tenor and the pianist vanished behind the screen. That he
was sufficiently sensitive to be conscious of the awkwardness of the
situation Miss Schley had pleasantly contrived was very apparent.
He glowered upon Lady Holme, forcing his boyish face to assume a
coarsely-determined and indifferent expression. But somehow the body,
which she knew her husband had thrashed, looked all the time as if it
were being thrashed again.

The voice of the hidden tenor rose in "_Celeste Aida!_" and Lady Holme
listened with an air of definite attention, taking no notice of Leo. The
music gave her a perfect excuse for ignoring him. But Miss Schley did
not intend to be interfered with by anything so easily trampled upon as
an art. Speaking in her most clear and choir-boyish tones, she said to
Leo Ulford:

"Sit down, Mr. Ulford. You fidget me standing."

Then turning again to Lady Holme she continued:

"Mr. Ulford's been so lovely and kind. He came up all the way from
Hertfordshire just to take care of marmar and me to-day. Marmar's fair
and crazy about him. She says he's the most lovely feller in Europe."

Leo twisted the bouquet. He was sitting now on the edge of a chair, and
shooting furtive glances in the direction of Lord Holme, who had begun
to look extremely stupid, overwhelmed by the cool impudence of the
American.

"Your husband looks as if he were perched around on a keg of
rattlesnakes," continued Miss Schley, her clear voice mingling with the
passionate tenor cry, "_Celeste Aida!_" "Ain't he feeling well to-day?"

"I believe he is perfectly well," said Lady Holme, in a very low voice.

It was odd, perhaps, but she did not feel at all angry, embarrassed,
or even slightly annoyed, by Miss Schley's very deliberate attempt to
distress her. Of course she understood perfectly what had happened and
was happening. Fritz had spoken to the actress about her mimicry of
his wife, had probably spoken blunderingly, angrily. Miss Schley was
secretly furious at his having found out what she had been doing, still
more furious at his having dared to criticise any pro