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"There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian as they took

their seats at the small round table. "What happened was simply

this. After I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had

some dinner at that little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street

you introduced me to, and went down at eight o'clock to the

theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Of course, the scenery was

dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl! You should have seen

her! When she came on in her boy's clothes, she was perfectly

wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with cinnamon

sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little green

cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak

lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite.

She had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you

have in your studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face

like dark leaves round a pale rose. As for her acting-well, you

shall see her to-night.