between dusty wedges of improbable landscapes out on to the stage. A
long table had been laid in the midst of the stereotyped drawing-room,
which formed the scene of her grotesque dancing, and absurdly elaborate
waiters in powdered hair and knee-breeches hovered in the wings. They
were not real waiters, and from the moment they came out into the
footlights the guests themselves became the chorus of a musical comedy.
It was difficult to believe in the over-abundant flowers with which the
table was strewn or in the champagne lying ostentatiously in wait.

The curtain had been left up, and the dim and dingy auditorium gaped
dismally at them. The empty seats were threatening as a silent,
starving mob pressed against the windows of a feasting-house. But the
woman on Stonehouse's arm waved to them.

"I like it so. I see all my friends there--my old friends who are
gone--God knows where. They sit and laugh and clap and nod to one
another. They say: '_Voyons_, our Gyp still 'aving a good time.' And
I kiss my 'and to them all."

She kissed her hand and threw her head back in the familiar movement as
though she waited for their applause. And when it was over she looked
up into Robert Stonehouse's face.

"_Monsieur le docteur_ is a leetle pale. One is always nervous at
one's debut. You never act before, _hein_?"

"Not in a theatre like this," he said.

And he felt a momentary satisfaction because she knew that his answer
had a meaning which she did not understand.