They opened to a big "house," comprising an audience of all classes, and
it might be said all nationalities; for in the din that arose from the
crowd Derrick caught scraps of Italian, Spanish, and French, the thick,
soft tone of the Mexican, the brogue of the Irishman; it was a veritable
Babel. As he passed behind the opening through which the performers
entered, Isabel Devigne stepped out from the women's dressing-room, and
Derrick could not suppress a start of surprise and admiration.

As a kind of compliment to the country, she was made up to represent a
queen of the Incas, and was the personification of barbaric splendour.
Her superb figure glittered and scintillated with silver and gold
tinsel, which, in the garish light, would look like a plate of precious
metal. A scarlet cloak partially draped her. The effect of her height
was increased by a head-dress of waving plumes, and her dark brows and
the natural scarlet of her lips were intensified by her make-up. Of
course, she saw him start and the frank admiration in his eyes, and she
smiled as she drew herself up with a proud consciousness of her beauty.

"Shall I do?" she asked, knowing well what the answer would be.

"You're simply splendacious," Derrick assured her. "That costume suits
you down to the ground. You're magnificent."

She flushed beneath her paint, and her lids drooped.