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the appreciation of the stagehands below, Celia St. Lys ran down the narrow spiral of steps leading from the bright and lofty stage down to the dark, damp depths of the theatre. Legs flashing white in the gloom, she ran through the maze of corridors to her dressing room.
    This was a small apartment divided into two parts. The first was a tiny sitting room prettily appointed with a French sofa and chairs upholstered in pink damask. Here, when so inclined, St. Lys received her visitors, and made them wait. Celia went straight through the sitting room to the alcove, kicking off the high-heeled mules she had worn in the final act just to annoy Mr. Palmer, who was two inches shorter than she. In her stocking feet she stood before the full-length mirror, watching impatiently as her dresser unlaced the back of her costume. The scent of roses filled the air. Dozens of bouquets, all composed of pale pink blooms, crowded the outer room, where the actress sometimes received select visitors. She was hungry, and the overpowering scent of roses made her feel light-headed.
    â€œI am sick of roses!” she declared.
    Her adorers would have been shocked to hear it; the St. Lys they knew loved roses, especially pink roses. Then again, the St. Lys they knew was never cross or sad or sick or nervous. She was always happy and beautiful. “I never should have let them name a rose after me. I wish someone had named a peach after me; one can eat a peach, after all.”
    Stepping out of Kate Hardcastle’s heavy skirts, she kicked them away.
    Clucking her tongue, Flood picked the old-fashioned brocaded skirts up off the floor, placed them gently over a chair, and continued undressing her mistress.
    â€œSure madam is in a pet this night,” observed the Irishwoman, as she always did, every night, because madam was always in a pet after a performance.
    Bit by bit, she stripped St. Lys down to her chemise, a garment so fine it scarcely concealed the slim, graceful form underneath. Men—the dirty creatures—were forever offering Flood money to let them spy upon her mistress, but to their continuous disappointment, the Irishwoman could not be bribed. She loved madam as no man ever could, and would have cut off her skinny, freckled arm rather than betray her. Lest madam catch cold, Flood tenderly wrapped her in her favorite old dressing gown of golden velvet. Once it had been sumptuous as a lion’s pelt, but now it was shockingly shabby. But when Flood had threatened to sell the old thing to the rag-and-bone man, madam had smiled like the sun and said, in her deliciously low, husky voice, “You’re much older than that, my darling Flood, and I wouldn’t sell you to the rag-and-bone man, either.”
    Celia went to her dressing table and, seated at the triple glass, began creaming her face. Though she had been blessed with great natural beauty, the harsh lights of the playhouse made the use of some cosmetics necessary. She used lampblack to darken her blond lashes and brows. She painted her lips red and rouged her cheeks bright pink. The lampblack made her eyes look intensely blue, and the crimson on her lips made her teeth look very white. Her skin was flawless. She never painted it with white lead, as the other actresses did, but made do with a little tinted powder, discreetly applied between acts, lest the Saintly One become known as the Shiny One. Offstage, she never wore cosmetics of any kind—save a little lip balm on her small, plump mouth. Her adorers were always charmed to see St. Lys on the street, barefaced as a child, and Celia, believing herself to be quite beautiful enough without artificial enhancement, was happy to give them what they wanted.
    Carefully and gently, as if removing dirt from a butterfly’s wing, she slowly removed her stage “face” with a piece of soft flannel. Without the lampblack, her eyes looked round and innocent. Her mouth looked softer and sweeter without the