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upon. Her Grace was occupied with Miss Charlotte Palmer, the pretty little Columbine who, with her brother, had gathered up St. Lys’s roses after the play. As Celia moved toward them, the dowager looked up, her green eyes widening in astonishment. “Good heavens, Miss St. Lys!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “You are even more beautiful than I thought.”
    The famous and beautiful St. Lys seemed not to hear the compliment.
    â€œCome, Charlotte,” she said to the little girl, stopping halfway across the room and stretching out her hand.
    â€œOh, do please let her stay with me, Miss St. Lys,” the duchess said quickly. “She is not bothering me in the least. She’s so adorable! I’d like to take her home with me,” she added, pinching the child’s cheeks. “Isn’t she adorable, Dorian?”
    The Duke of Berkshire, caught staring at St. Lys as if she were a painting or, perhaps, a statue in a museum, gave a start, and said yes. Yes, she was.
    â€œCome here to me, Charlotte,” Celia repeated clearly, still holding out her hand. “I will show you the proper way to curtsy to a duchess. One must be taught these things, after all.”
    The child ran to Celia eagerly. Celia demonstrated the proper form, sinking into a very deep curtsy, her head bowed in tranquil reverence. The child copied the graceful movement as best she could, to the duchess’s delight. Her Grace applauded, saying, “I wish you would take some of our debutantes in hand, Miss St. Lys. The last drawing room at St. James’s Palace was the most shocking display of gaucherie I have ever had the misfortune to see.”
    â€œGo and tell your papa that I will play in his benefit tomorrow night,” Celia whispered to Charlotte Palmer, sending her from the room with a kiss.
    â€œBring her closer, Fitzclarence,” the duchess commanded Celia’s escort. “Don’t be afraid, Miss St. Lys,” she added kindly. “I shan’t bite you.”
    Celia laughed. Even her laugh was famous; no one who ever heard that delightful low, throaty purr ever forgot it. “I am very glad to hear that , Your Grace,” she drawled, coming forward. “One can never be too careful these days.”
    The duchess smiled indulgently. In her opinion, beautiful actresses ought to be at least somewhat impudent. Certainly they should not behave like prim young ladies straight out of the schoolroom. That would be intolerable. “May I present my son, the Duke of Berkshire? Oh, and—er—Miss Tinsley,” she added rather vaguely.
    Dorian bowed again, but Miss Tinsley did not curtsy.
    St. Lys merely inclined her head. “How nice. I do hope you all enjoyed the play?”
    â€œVery much,” said the duchess. “Did we not, Dorian?”
    â€œYes; very much,” Dorian murmured.
    â€œYou are very kind to say so,” said Celia. “Praise, you know, is the lifeblood of the theatre. ‘The drama’s laws the drama’s patrons give, for we that live to please, must please to live.’”
    â€œIs that Shakespeare?” Dorian asked eagerly. “I’m awfully fond of Shakespeare. I did a little amateur acting when I was at Eton.”
    St. Lys glanced at him. “I’m afraid that was Dr. Johnson, Your Grace.”
    â€œWell, you certainly pleased us tonight, my dear,” the duchess told her warmly. “You were charming, from first to last! Absolutely charming! We were in raptures.”
    â€œI was not in raptures,” Lucasta declared. “You were very good as the barmaid, Miss St. Lys. I grant you that much. But, I suppose, it is a part that comes naturally to a person like yourself.”
    Dorian stiffened with anger, but St. Lys merely laughed. “All my parts come naturally to me, Miss Tilney,” she said.
    â€œTinsley!” snapped Lucasta. “My father is Sir Lucas Tinsley,” she added proudly.