“Pouf!”

She shook her fan.

The room would soon be dark.

From the grey-toned walls, scriptural, a Sasso Sassi frowned.

“In all these fruitful years,” she read, “the only instance he is recorded to have smiled was at a great rat running in and out among some statues.... He was the Ideal Hamlet. Morose of countenance, and cynical by nature, his outbursts, at times, would completely freeze the company.”

Miss Sinquier passed her finger-tips lightly across her hair.

“Somehow it makes no difference,” she murmured, turning towards a glass. To feign Ophelia—no matter what!

She pulled about her a lace Manilla shawl.

It was as though it were Andalusia whenever she wrapped it on.

“Dona Rosarda!”