“To resume, in plain English,” he said, “keep away from my wife, Mallett.  You comprehend that, don’t you?”

“Perfectly.  Now get out!”

Dysart hesitated for the fraction of a second longer, as though perhaps expecting further reply, then turned on his heel and walked out.

Later, while Duane was examining his own costume preparatory to trying it on, Scott Seagrave’s spectacled and freckled visage protruded into the room.  He knocked as an after-thought.

“Rosalie sent me.  She’s dressed in all her gimcracks and wants your expert opinion.  I’ve got to go——­”

“Where is she?”

“In her room.  I’m going out to the hatchery with Kathleen——­”

“Come and see Rosalie with me, first,” said Duane, passing his arm through Scott’s and steering him down the sunny corridor.

When they knocked, Mrs. Dysart admitted them, revealing herself in full costume, painted and powdered, the blinds pulled down, and the electric lights burning behind their rosy shades.

“It’s my final dress rehearsal,” she explained.  “Mr. Mallett, is my hair sufficiently a la Lamballe to suit you?”

“Yes, it is.  You’re a perfect little porcelain figurette!  There’s not an anachronism in you or your make-up.  How did you do it?”

“I merely stuck like grim death to your sketches,” she said demurely.

Scott eyed her without particular interest.  “Very corking,” he said vaguely, “but I’ve got to go down to the hatchery with Kathleen, so you won’t mind if I leave——­”

He closed the door behind him before anybody could speak.  Duane moved toward the door.

“It’s a charming costume,” he said, “and most charmingly worn; your hair is exactly right—­not too much powder, you know——­”

“Where shall I put my patch?  Here?”

“Higher.”

“Here?”

He came back to the centre of the room where she stood.

“Here,” he said, indenting the firm, cool ivory skin with one finger, “and here.  Wear two.”

“And my rings—­do you think that my fingers are overloaded?” She held out her fascinating smooth little hands.  He supported them on his upturned palms and examined the gems critically.

They talked for a few moments about the rings, then:  “Thank you so much,” she said, with a carelessly friendly pressure.  “How about my shoes?  Are the buckles of the period?”

One of her hands encountered his at hazard, lingered, dropped, the fingers still linked lightly in his.  She bent over, knees straight, and lifted the hem of her petticoat, displaying her Louis XVI footwear.

“Shoes and buckles are all right,” he said; “faultless, true to the period—­very fascinating....  I’ve got to go—­one or two things to do——­”

They examined the shoes for some time in silence; still bending over she turned her dainty head and looked around and up at him.  There was a moment’s pause, then he kissed her.