“Go, Smith, to the box office, and say G 2 and 3 (orchestra) have been returned; there’s no answer,” she added, moving towards the brightly lit dressing-room beyond.
Ensconced in an easy chair, before a folding mirror that, rich in reflections, encompassed her screen-like about, sat Mrs. Sixsmith pensively polishing her nails.
Miss Sinquier bit her lip.
“I thought——” she began.
“Sh——! Be Juliet now. We’re in Verona,” Mrs. Sixsmith exclaimed. “Fuori the doors.”
“Fancy finding you.”
“Me?”
“What are you doing in my Italy?”
Mrs. Sixsmith threw a glance at herself in the glass. “I’m a girl friend,” she said; “a Venetian acquaintance: someone Julie met while paddling in the Adriatic—in fact, cara cuore, I’m a daughter of the Doge. Yes; I’m one of the Dolfin-Trons.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”