ners at the same
moment spying a purse in the street, struggling with each other and
protesting they wanted to take it to the policeman, Ciccio, who
stood solid and ridiculous. Mr. Houghton nodded slowly and gravely,
as if to give his measured approval.

Then all retired to dress for the great scene. Alvina practised the
music Madame carried with her. If Madame found a good pianist, she
welcomed the accompaniment: if not, she dispensed with it.

"Am I all right?" said a smirking voice.

And there was Kishwegin, dusky, coy, with long black hair and a
short chamois dress, gaiters and moccasins and bare arms: _so_ coy,
and _so_ smirking. Alvina burst out laughing.

"But shan't I do?" protested Mr. May, hurt.

"Yes, you're wonderful," said Alvina, choking. "But I _must_ laugh."

"But why? Tell me why?" asked Mr. May anxiously. "Is it my
_appearance_ you laugh at, or is it only _me_? If it's me I don't
mind. But if it's my appearance, tell me so."

Here an appalling figure of Ciccio in war-paint strolled on to the
stage. He was naked to the waist, wore scalp-fringed trousers, was
dusky-red-skinned, had long black hair and eagle's feathers--only
two feathers--and a face wonderfully and terribly painted with
white, red, yellow, and black lines. He was evidently pleased with
himself. His curious soft slouch, and curious way of lifting his lip
from his white teeth, in a sort of smile, was very convincing.

"You haven't got the girdle," he said, touching Mr. May's plump
waist--"and some flowers in your hair."

Mr. May here gave a sharp cry and a jump. A bear on its hind legs,
slow, shambling, rolling its loose shoulders, was stretching a paw
towards him. The bear dropped heavily on four paws again, and a
laugh came from its muzzle.

"You won't have to dance," said Geoffrey out of the bear.

"Come and put in the flowers," said Mr. May anxiously, to Alvina.

In the dressing-room, the dividing-curtain was drawn. Max, in
deerskin trousers but with unpainted torso looked very white and
strange as he put the last touches of war-paint on Louis' face. He
glanced round at Alvina, then went on with his work. There was a
sort of nobility about his erect white form and stiffly-carried
head, the semi-luminous brown hair. He seemed curiously superior.

Alvina adjusted the maidenly Mr. May. Louis arose, a _brave_ like
Ciccio, in war-paint even more hideous. Max slipped on a tattered
hunting-shirt and cartridge belt. His face was