Mr. Mackwayte's face creased its mask of paint into a thousand
wrinkles. For, on seeing him, the dancer's face lighted up, and,
running to him with hands outstretched, she cried:

"Tiens! Monsieur Arthur!" while he ejaculated:

"Why, it's little Marcelle!"

But now the stage manager interposed. He whisked Madame's wrap
off her with one hand and with the other, firmly propelled her on
to the stage. She let him have his way with a merry smile, dark
eyes and white teeth flashing, but as she went she said to Mr.
Mackwayte:

"My friend, wait for me! Et puis nous causerons! We will 'ave a
talk, nest-ce pas?"

"A very old friend of mine, my dear," Mr. Mackwayte said to
Barbara when, dressed in his street clothes, he rejoined her in
the wings where she stood watching Nur-el-Din dancing. "She was
an acrobat in the Seven Duponts, a turn that earned big money in
the old days. It must be... let's see... getting on for twenty
years since I last set eyes on her. She was a pretty kid in those
days! God bless my soul! Little Marcelle a big star! It's really
most amazing!"

Directly she was off the stage, Nur-el-Din cams straight to Mr.
Mackwayte, pushing aside her maid who was waiting with her wrap.

"My friend," she cooed in her pretty broken English, "I am so