[She moves away, as Rose Trelawny and Arthur Gower enter. Rose is nineteen, wears washed muslin, and looks divine. She has much of the extravagance of gesture, over-emphasis in speech, and freedom of manner engendered by the theatre, but is graceful and charming nevertheless. Arthur is a handsome, boyish young man—"all eyes" for Rose.]

Rose.

[Meeting Imogen.] Dear Imogen!

Imogen.

[Kissing her.] Rose, dear!

Rose.

To think of your journeying from the West to see me make my exit from Brydon Crescent! But you're a good sort; you always were. Do sit down and tell me—oh—! let me introduce Mr. Gower. Mr. Arthur Gower—Miss Imogen Parrott. The Miss Parrott of the Olympic.

Arthur.

[Reverentially.] I know. I've seen Miss Parrott as Jupiter, and as—I forget the name—in the new comedy——-[Imogen and Rose sit below the table.]

Rose.

He forgets everything but the parts I play, and the pieces I play in—poor child! don't you, Arthur?

Arthur.

[Standing by Rose, looking down upon her.] Yes—no. Well, of course I do! How can I help it, Miss Parrott? Miss Parrott won't think the worse of me for that—will you, Miss Parrott?

Mrs. Telfer.

I am going to remove my bonnet. Imogen Parrott—!