For there was to be a dress rehearsal in the pavilion, to which certain spectators were to be admitted, chiefly as critics.

“Do you walk up the hill, Clem?”

“Yes, as long as I don’t go too fast.  Go on if you are wanted, and I will follow.  Cherry has sent the carriage for an invalid who cannot venture to be there all the day.”

“Let them wait.  A walk with you is not to be wasted.  Run on, Fely, tell them we are coming,” he added to his little Ariel, who had got lost in Jungle Beasts.

As they went up the hill together, Clement not sorry to lean on his brother’s arm, a dark woman of striking figure and countenance, though far from young, came up with them, accompanied by a stout, over-dressed man.

“That’s the cigar-shop woman,” said Lance, “the mother of our pretty little Miranda.”

“I wonder she chooses to show herself after her conviction,” said Clement.

“And if I am not much mistaken, that is the villain of The Sepoy’s Revenge,” said Lance.  “Poor little Butterfly, it is a bad omen for her future fate.”

As they reached the doors of the great hotel, they found the pair in altercation with the porter before the iron gate that gave admittance to the gardens.  “Mother Butterfly” was pleading that she was the mother of Miss Schnetterling, who was singing, and the porter replying that his orders were strict.

“No, not on any consideration,” he repeated, as the man was evidently showing him the glance of silver, and a policeman, who was marching about, showed signs of meaning to interfere.

At the same moment Gerald’s quick steps came up from the inside.

“That’s right, Lance; every one is crying out for you.  Vicar, Cherie is keeping a capital place for you.”

The gate opened to admit them, and therewith Mrs. Schnetterling, trying to push in, made a vehement appeal—-

“Mr. Underwood, sir, surely the prima donna’s own mother should not be excluded.”

“Her mother!” said Gerald.  “Well, perhaps so, but hardly this-— person,” as his native fastidiousness rose at the sight.

“No, sir,” said the porter.  “Captain Henderson and Mr. Simmonds, they have specially cautioned me who I lets in.”

The man grumbled something about swells and insolence, and Lance, with his usual instinct of courtesy, lingered to say—-

“This is quite a private rehearsal-—only the persons concerned!”

“And if I’m come on business,” said the man confidentially.  “You are something in our line.”

“Scarcely,” said Lance, rather amused.  “At any rate, I don’t make the regulations.”

He sped away at the summons of his impatient son and Gerald.

They met Captain Henderson on the way, and after a hasty greeting, he said—-

“So you have let in the Schnetterling woman?”

“One could not well keep out the mother,” returned Lance.