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“Well,” said Mrs. Whitney in a low barytone voice, “send ’em back. We’re through with ’em.”

“That’s a mere item,” continued Knowleton glumly. “Including your salary, and Appleton’s here, and that fellow who did the chauffeur, and seventy supes for two nights, and an orchestra—that’s nearly twelve hundred, and then there’s the rent on the costumes and that darn Chinese portrait and the bribes to the servants. Lord! There’ll probably be bills for one thing or another coming in for the next month.”

“Well, then,” said Appleton, “for pity’s sake pull yourself together and carry it through to the end. Take my word for it, that girl will be out of the house by twelve noon.”

Knowleton sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“Oh——”

“Brace up! It’s all over. I thought for a minute there in the hall that you were going to balk at that Chinese business.”

“It was the vaudeville that knocked the spots out of me,” groaned Knowleton. “It was about the meanest trick ever pulled on any girl, and she was so darned game about it!”