ing and brow-beating. He was a small,
excitable man who wore a frock-coat much too small for him, a flowing
purple cravatte drawn through a finger ring, and enormous cuffs set off
with huge buttons of Mexican onyx. In his lapel was an inevitable
carnation, dried, shrunken, and lamentable. He was redolent of perfume
and spoke of himself as an artist. He caused it to be understood that
in the intervals of "coaching society plays" he gave his attention to
the painting of landscapes. Corthell feigned to ignore his very
existence.

The play-book in his hand, Monsieur Gerardy clicked his heels in the
middle of the floor and punctiliously saluted everyone present, bowing
only from his shoulders, his head dropping forward as if propelled by
successive dislocations of the vertebrae of his neck.

He explained the cause of his delay. His English was without accent,
but at times suddenly entangled itself in curious Gallic constructions.

"Then I propose we begin at once," he announced. "The second act
to-night, then, if we have time, the third act--from the book. And I
expect the second act to be letter-perfect--let-ter-per-fect. There is
nothing there but that." He held up his hand, as if to refuse to
consider the least dissention. "There is nothing but that--no other
thing."

All but Corthell listened attentively. The artist, however, turning his
back, had continued to talk to Laura without lowering his tone, and all
through Monsieur Gerardy's exhortation his voice had made itself heard.
"Management of light and shade" ... "color scheme" ... "effects of
composition."

Monsieur Gerardy's eye glinted in his direction. He struck his
play-book sharply into the palm of his hand.

"Come, come!" he cried. "No more nonsense. Now we leave the girls alone
and get to work. Here is the scene. Mademoiselle Gretry, if I derange
you!" He cleared a space at the end of the parlor, pulling the chairs
about. "Be attentive now. Here"--he placed a chair at his right with a
flourish, as though planting a banner--"is the porch of Lord Glendale's
country house."

"Ah," murmured Landry, winking solemnly at Page, "the chair is the
porch of the house."

"And here," shouted Monsieur Gerardy, glaring at him and slamming down
another chair, "is a rustic bench and practicable table set for
breakfast."

Page began to giggle behind her play-book. Gerardy, his nostrils
expanded, gave her his back. The older people, who were not to take
part--Jadwin,