“I wish you would do me a very great favor,” he said.

“What is it?” asked Grace Mainwaring, who was standing in front of the tall mirror, adjusting the shining stars and crescents that adorned her powdered hair.

“I suppose you could wear a little nosegay with that dress,” he said, “of natural flowers, done up with a bit of white satin ribbon, perhaps, and a silver tube and cord, or something of that kind?”

“Flowers?” she repeated.  “Oh, yes, I could wear them—­if any one were polite enough to give me them.”

“I shall be delighted to send you some every evening for a month, if you’ll only do this for me on Saturday,” said he.  “It is on Saturday night those two ladies are coming to the theatre; and you were good enough to promise to ask them to your room and offer them some tea.  The younger of the two—­that is, Miss Cunyngham—­has never been behind the scenes of a theatre before, and I think she will be very pleased to be introduced to Miss Grace Mainwaring; and don’t you think it would be rather nice of Miss Grace Mainwaring to take those flowers from her dress and present them to the young lady, as a souvenir of her visit?”

She wheeled round, and looked at him with a curious scrutiny.

“Well, this is something new!” she said, as she turned to the mirror again.  “I thought it was the fortunate Harry Thornhill who received all kinds of compliments and attentions from his lady adorers; I wasn’t aware he ever returned them.  But do you think it is quite fair, Mr. Moore?  If this is some girl who has a love-sick fancy for Harry Thornhill, don’t you think you should drop Harry Thornhill and play David Garrick, to cure the poor thing?”

“Considering that Miss Cunyngham has never seen Harry Thornhill,” he was beginning, when she interrupted him: 

“Oh, only heard him sing in private?  Quite enough, I suppose, to put nonsense into a silly school-girl’s head.”

“When you see this young lady,” he observed, “I don’t think you will say she looks like a silly school-girl.  She’s nearly as tall as I am, for one thing.”

“I hate giraffes,” said Miss Burgoyne, tartly, “Do you put a string round her neck when you go out walking with her?”

He was just on the point of saying something about greenroom manners, but thought better of it.

“Now, Miss Burgoyne,” he said to her, “on Saturday night you are going to put on your most winning way—­you can do it when you like—­and you are going to captivate and fascinate those two people until they’ll go away home with the conviction that you are the most charming and delightful creature that ever lived.  You can do it easily enough if you like—­no one better.  You are going to be very nice to them, and you’ll send them away just in love with Grace Mainwaring.”

Miss Burgoyne altered her tone a little.

“If I give your giraffe friend those flowers, I suppose you expect me to tell lies as well?” she asked, with some approach to good-humor.