A small, quaint, old-fashioned house in South Bank, Regent's Park; two
maidens in white in the open veranda; around them the abundant foliage
of June, unruffled by any breeze; and down at the foot of the steep
garden the still canal, its surface mirroring the soft translucent
greens of the trees and bushes above, and the gaudier colors of a barge
lying moored on the northern side. The elder of the two girls is seated
in a rocking-chair; she appears to have been reading, for her right
hand, hanging down, still holds a thin MS. book covered with coarse
brown paper. The younger is lying at her feet, with her head thrown back
in her sister's lap, and her face turned up to the clear June skies.
There are some roses about this veranda, and the still air is sweet with
them.

"And of all the parts you ever played in," she says, "which one did you
like the best Gerty?"

"This one," is the gentle answer.

"What one?"

"Being at home with you and papa, and having no bother at all, and
nothing to think of."

"I don't believe it," says the other, with the brutal frankness of
thirteen. "You couldn't live without the theatre, Gerty--and the
newspapers talking about you--and people praising you--and bouquets--"

"Couldn't I?" says Miss White, with a smile, as she gently lays her hand