vous voir—Miladi à vos pieds. What a wretched creature that is playing Julie de Scabreuse. I blush for my country. When I was a young man, the smallest theatre in France would not have endured that woman. There was a public then with proper feeling for the histrionic as for every other art; a bad gesture or a false intonation was hissed by every audience, were that audience only composed of workmen and work girls; but now ———"
"May one enter, Mesdames?" asked his friend, Della Rocca.
"One may—if you will only shut the door. Thanks for the cyclamens," said the Lady Hilda, with a little of the weariness going off her delicate, proud face.
Della Rocca took the seat behind her, as the slave Maurice surrendered his to M. de St. Louis.
"Happy flowers! I found them in my own woods this morning," he said, as he took his seat. "You do not seem much amused, Madame."
"Amused! The play is odious. Even poor Desclée's genius could only give it a horrible fascination."
