Miss Luscombe, humming a tune, was wandering round her drawing-room, arranging it. She always hummed a little tune when she was alone, if possible some quaint old French air. Not that she was really alone now; only her invisible mother was with her. To do her justice, Flora took as much trouble to impress this almost imperceptible audience as if she represented a large crowd.

"There!" she said. She dusted a little blue vase and put it further back. "Now you're nice and tidy. No, you go back there, you ugly thing!" pouting at a photograph, "you're not wanted to-day! Come out more in the light, Lady Charles! We want you to be seen. That's better!"

From the depths of an arm-chair, where she was hidden, Mrs. Luscombe, who was watching her with intense irritation, said sharply—

"Who do you expect to-day?""Oh! how you startled me, Mummy! I didn't know you were there.... Isn't it funny, when you wear that dark red dress, just the colour of the armchair, one doesn't see you?"

She went on humming in the low, sweet voice, "La violette double, double—la violette double-ra-ra."

"Pray stop that, Flora. My nerves won't bear it. Who did you say you expect?"

"Mr. Rathbone, darling, if you must know. Mr. John Ryland Rathbone, to be exact. You know he's one of the Catford Rathbones, don't you, Mummy?"

"What's a Catford Rathbone?"

"Dear mamma!" she laughed. "It's quite a good old family. One of the untitled aristocracy."

"I thought you told me his father was a farmer?"

"No, dear—that's a little mistake. I told you his father had taken to farming—as a hobby. Besides, that's just what I mean—a fine old yeoman stock—the backbone of the country."

"Why are you praising up this Mr. Backbone—or Rathbone—so much? Is he in love with you?"

Flora laughed coquettishly, putting on her Russian Princess manner. It was voluble, disdainful, and condescending. She often changed, quite suddenly, from an ingÉnue to a grande dame, and then to an adventuress and back again before you knew where you were.

"Of course he's in love with me. What of that? Poor boy, he must take his chance like the others! 'La violette double, double——' Oh, I forgot, dear. I beg your pardon."

"What's he coming here for?" pursued the relentless mother.

Miss Luscombe now became a soubrette of a somewhat hooligan type, and pretended to throw a little feather duster she was holding into the depths of the arm-chair.

"That remains to be seen. But I'm a girl who knows how to take care of herself. I shall keep him in his place, old dear. Don't you worry."

"I don't."

There was a ring at the door. Flora blushed genuinely, and put some powder on. She became sweet and tactful again, and refined, the amiable woman of the world. She helped her mother out of the arm-chair, quite unnecessarily, but perhaps to hurry her departure.

"You'd better leave us alone now, darling," she said, "and girlie will tell you all about it afterwards."

Mrs. Luscombe ran like a hare through a side door.The servant announced, throwing open the folding doors, "Mr. Rathbone."

In two seconds the feather-duster was behind a screen, and Flora, looking really very handsome—she was, as usual in the daytime, in semi-evening dress—was reading a little book covered in old vellum, and kept for the purpose of her being found reading it. She put it down and welcomed her guest charmingly.

Rathbone, looking very fair and pink and rather determined, had brought with him a kind of case containing his collection of old theatre programmes, so that he gave the impression of being a diplomat of high importance with a portfolio.

She helped him prettily to show her the programmes, and was pleased to see that there was something else on his mind.

She gave him a cigarette and they had tea. He told her the ancient story of his writing to Cissie Loftus, and how he had never received an answer. She welcomed the anecdote as though it combined the brilliance of a jewel with the freshness of a daisy.

Then he spoke in a somewhat thick voice and with that rather gruff manner that she associated with sincerity.

"Miss Luscombe, I ..."—he sighed deeply. "To tell you the truth, there's something—for a long time I've wanted to ask you."

He fixed on her intently his blue eyes, in which there was an ardent glare.

"Really, Mr. Rathbone? What can I do for you?"

"A great deal. The question is, what would you do for me?"

"Oh, that depends," she said, smiling, looking down, and enjoying herself.

"Not to put too fine a point upon it, Miss Luscombe——"; he stopped nervously.

"Miss Luscombe sounds so formal," she murmured.

"You wouldn't allow me to call you Flora, would you?"

He smiled, but she thought he looked disappointed. Perhaps he was a man who needed difficulties—opposition.

"Well ... I ... it depends," she said.

"Look here, Flora, you're a very charming woman. I have a great admiration for you. What is more, I believe you to be a thoroughly good——" he hesitated again; was he going to say 'woman,' 'actress?'—he decided on 'sort.'

"Oh!"

"Now I'll reveal to you the dream of my life, which I wouldn't tell to anybody else."

"I wonder if I can guess it?" she said, wishing he would hurry up. Lady Charles was coming at half-past five to get the address of that fur place Flora knew of, where you got things practically for nothing—and they were worth it, too.

"I know I'm not so very young," continued the young man.

"Why, you're only about thirty-four, aren't you? I call that young."

"Do you—do you really? Now I was afraid I was getting rather too old to begin, as it were, a fresh life. Well now"—he came a little nearer and touched her hand, which lay on the table; it was a pretty hand, thin and bony, with pink polished nails and a garnet ring—"will you do it for me? will you help me? will you not think me foolish—too daring—too sanguine?..."

"What?"

"Yes. I see you've guessed. Yes. I want to go on the stage."