no. And a pot of tea.'

The waiter stared; Francis stared. The tea was a novelty (in
connection with maraschino) to both of them. Careless whether she
surprised them or not, she instructed the waiter, when her directions
had been complied with, to pour a large wine-glass-full of the liqueur
into a tumbler, and to fill it up from the teapot. 'I can't do it for
myself,' she remarked, 'my hand trembles so.' She drank the strange
mixture eagerly, hot as it was. 'Maraschino punch--will you taste some
of it?' she said. 'I inherit the discovery of this drink. When your
English Queen Caroline was on the Continent, my mother was attached to
her Court. That much injured Royal Person invented, in her happier
hours, maraschino punch. Fondly attached to her gracious mistress, my
mother shared her tastes. And I, in my turn, learnt from my mother.
Now, Mr. Westwick, suppose I tell you what my business is. You are
manager of a theatre. Do you want a new play?'

'I always want a new play--provided it's a good one.'

'And you pay, if it's a good one?'

'I pay liberally--in my own interests.'

'If I write the play, will you read it?'

Francis hesitated. 'What has put writing a play into your head?' he
asked.

'Mere accident,' she answered. 'I had once occasion to tell my late
brother of a visit which I paid to Miss Lockwood, when I was last in
England. He took no interest at what happened at the interview, but
something struck him in my way of relating it. He said, "You describe
what passed between you and the lady with the point and contrast of
good stage dialogue. You have the dramatic instinct--try if you can
write a play. You might make money." That put it into my head.'

Those last words seemed to startle Francis. 'Surely you don't want
money!' he exclaimed.

'I always want money. My tastes are expensive. I have nothing but my
poor little four hundred a year--and the wreck that is left of the
other money: about two hundred pounds in circular notes--no more.'

Francis knew that she was referring to the ten thousand pounds paid by
the insurance offices. 'All those thousands gone already!' he
exclaimed.

She blew a little puff of air over her fingers. 'Gone like that!' she
answered coolly.

'Baron Rivar?'

She looked at him with a flash of anger in her hard black eyes.

'My affairs are my own secret, Mr. Westwick. I have made you a
proposal--and you have not answered me yet. Don't say No, without
thinking first. Remem