The episode that turned Clorinda Bell's thoughts in the direction of Old Maidenhood¹ was not wanting in strangeness. She was an actress of whom everybody spoke² well, excepting actresses. This was because she was so respectable. Respectability is all very well for persons who possess no other ability; but bohemians rightly feel that genius should be above that sort of thing. Clorinda never went anywhere without her mother. This lady—a portly taciturn dame⁴, whose hair had felt the snows of sixty winters—was as much a part of her as a thorn is of a rose. She accompanied her always—except when she was singing—and loomed⁵ like some more substantial shadow before or behind her at balls and receptions, at concerts and operas, private views and church bazaars⁶. Her mother was always with her behind the scenes. She helped her to make up and to unmake. She became the St. Peter of the dressing-room in her absence. At the Green Room Club they will tell you how a royal personage asking permission to come and congratulate her, received the answer: "I shall be most honored—in the presence of my mother."  
There were those who wished Clorinda had been born an orphan⁷.
 
But the graver sort held Miss Bell up as a typical harbinger of the new era, when actresses would keep mothers instead of dog-carts. There was no intrinsic reason, they  said, why actresses should not be received at Court, and visit the homes of the poor. Clorinda was very charming. She was tall and fair as a lily, with dashes of color stolen from the rose and the daffodil, for her eyes had a sparkle and her cheeks a flush and her hair was usually golden. Not the least of her physical charms was the fact that she had numerous admirers. But it was understood that she kept them at a distance and that they worshipped there. The Society journals, to which Clorinda was indebted for considerable information about herself, often stated that she intended to enter a convent, as her higher nature found scant⁸ satisfaction in stage triumphs, and she had refused to exchange her hand either for a coronet or a pile of dollars. They frequently stated the opposite, but a Society journal cannot always be contradicting a contemporary. It must sometimes contradict itself, as a proof of impartiality⁹. Clorinda let all these rumors¹⁰ surge about her unheeded, and her managers had to pay for the advertisement. The money came back to them, though, for Clorinda was a sure draw. She brought the odor of sanctity over the footlights, and people have almost as much curiosity to see a saint as a sinner—especially when the saint is beautiful.
 
Gentlemen in particular paid frequent pilgrimages to the shrine¹¹ of the saint, and adored her from the ten-and-sixpenny pews. There was at this period a noteworthy figure in London dress circles and stalls, an inveterate¹² first-nighter, whose identity was the subject of considerable speculation¹³. He was a mystery in a swallow-tail coat. No one had ever seen him out of it. He seemed to go through life armed with a white breastplate, starched¹⁴ shot-proof and dazzling as a grenadier's cuirass. What wonder that a wit (who had become a dramatic critic through drink) called him. "The Man in the Ironed Mask." Between the acts he wore a cloak, a crush-hat and a  cigarette. Nobody ever spoke to him nor did he ever reply. He could not be dumb, because he had been heard to murmur¹⁵ "Brava, bravissima," in a soft but incorrect foreign manner. He was very handsome, with a high, white forehead of the Goth order of architecture, and dark, Moorish¹⁶ eyes. Nobody even knew his name, for he went to the play quite anonymously¹⁷. The pit took him for a critic, and the critics for a minor¹⁸ poet. He had appeared on the scene (or before it) only twelve months ago, but already he was a distinguished¹⁹ man. Even the actors and actresses had come to hear of him, and not a few had peeped at him between their speeches. He was certainly a sight for the "gods."
 
Latterly he had taken to frequenting the Lymarket, where Miss Clorinda Bell was "starring" for a season of legitimate²⁰ drama. It was the only kind the scrupulous²¹ actress would play in. Whenever there was no first night on anywhere else, he went to see Clorinda. Only a few rivals and the company knew of his constancy to the entertainment. Clorinda was, it will be remembered, one of the company.
 
It was the entr'acte and the orchestra was playing a gavotte, to which the eighteenth-century figures on the drop scene were dancing. The Man in the Ironed Mask strolled in the lobby among the critics, overhearing the views they were not going to express in print. Clorinda Bell's mother was brushing her child's magnificent hair into a more tragical²² attitude in view of the fifth act. The little room was sacred to the "star," the desire of so many moths²³. Neither maid nor dresser entered it, for Mrs. Bell was as devoted²⁴ to her daughter as her daughter to her, and tended her as zealously²⁶ as if she were a stranger.
 
"Yes, but why doesn't he speak?" said Clorinda.
 
"You haven't given him a chance, darling," said her mother.
 
 "Nonsense—there is the language of flowers. All my lovers commence by talking that."
 
"You get so many bouquets²⁷, dear. It may be—as you say his appearance is so distinguished—that he dislikes so commonplace a method."
 
"Well, if he doesn't want to throw his love at my feet, he might have tried to send it me in a billet-doux."
 
"That is also commonplace. Besides, he may know that all your letters are delivered to me, and opened by me. The fact has often enough appeared in print."
 
"Ah, yes, but genius will find out a way. You remember Lieutenant²⁸ Campbell, who was so hit the moment he saw me as Perdita that he went across the road to the telegraph-office and wired, 'Meet me at supper, top floor, Piccadilly Restaurant, 11.15,' so that the doorkeeper sent the message direct to the prompter, who gave it me as I came off with Florizel and Camilla. That is the sort of man I admire!"
 
"But you soon tired of him, darling."
 
"Oh, mother! How can you say so? I loved him the whole run of the piece."
 
"Yes, dear, but it was only Shakespeare."
 
"Would you have love a Burlesque²⁹? 'A Winter's Tale' is long enough for any flirtation³⁰. Let me see, was it Campbell or Belfort who shot himself? I for——oh! oh! that hairpin³¹ is irritating me, mother."
 
"There! There! Is that easier?"
 
"Thanks! There's only the Man in the Ironed Mask irritating me now. His dumb admiration³² provokes me."
 
"But you provoke his dumb admiration. And are you sure it is admiration?"
 
"People don't go to see Shakespeare seventeen times. I wonder who he is—an Italian count most likely. Ah, how his teeth flash beneath his moustache!"
 
 "You make me feel quite curious about him. Do you think I could peep at him from the wing?"
 
"No, mother, you shall not be put to the inconvenience. It would give you a crick in your neck. If you desire to see him, I will send for him."
 
"Very well, dear," said the older woman submissively, for she was accustomed to the gratification of her daughter's whims³⁴.
 
So when the Man in the Ironed Mask resumed his seat, a programme girl slipped a note into his hand. He read it, his face impassive as his Ironed Mask. When the play was over, he sauntered round to the squalid court in which the stage door was located and stalked nonchalantly up the stairs. The doorkeeper was too impressed by his air not to take him for granted. He seemed to go on instinctively³⁵ till he arrived at a door placarded, "Miss Clorinda Bell—Private."
 
He knocked, and the silvery accents he had been listening to all the evening bade him come in. The beautiful Clorinda, clad in diaphanous³⁶ white and radiating perfumes, received him with an intoxicating³⁷ smile.
 
"It is so kind of you to come and see me," she said.
 
He made a stately inclination³⁸. "The obligation is mine," he said. "I am greatly interested in the drama. This is the seventeenth time I have been to see you."
 
"I meant here," she said piqued³⁹, though the smile stayed on.
 
"Oh, but I understood——" His eyes wandered interrogatively about the room.
 
"Yes, I know my mother is out," she replied. "She is on the stage picking up the bouquets. I believe she sent you a note. I do not know why she wants to see you, but she will be back soon. If you do not mind being left alone with me——"
 
 "Pray do not apologize, Miss Bell," he said considerately.
 
"It is so good of you to say so. Won't you sit down?"
 
The Man in the Ironed Mask sat down beside the dazzling Clorinda and stared expectantly at the door. There was a tense silence. His cloak hung negligently⁴⁰ upon his shoulders. He held his crush hat calmly in his hand.
 
Clorinda was highly chagrined⁴¹. She felt as if she could slap his face and kiss the place to make it well.
 
"Did you like the play?" she said, at last.
 
He elevated his dark eyebrows⁴². "Is it not obvious?"
 
"Not entirely⁴³. You might come to see the players."
 
"Quite so, quite so."
 
He leaned his handsome head on his arm and looked pensively⁴⁴ at the floor. It was some moments before he broke the silence again. But it was only by rising to his feet. He walked towards the door.
 
"I am sorry I cannot stay any longer," he said.
 
"Oh, no! You mustn't go without seeing my mother. She will be terribly disappointed."
 
"Not less so than myself at missing her. Good-night, Miss Bell." He made his prim⁴⁵, courtly bow.
 
"Oh, but you must see her! Come again to-morrow night, anyhow," exclaimed Clorinda desperately⁴⁶. And when his footsteps had died away down the stairs, she could not repress several tears of vexation. Then she looked hurriedly into a little mirror and marvelled⁴⁷ silently.
 
"Is he gone already?" said her mother, entering after knocking cautiously at the door.
 
"Yes, he is insane."
 
"Madly in love with you?"
 
"Madly out of love with me."
 
He came again the next night, stolid⁴⁸ and courteous⁴⁹. To Clorinda's infinite regret her mother had been taken  ill and had gone home early in the carriage. It was raining hard. Clorinda would be reduced to a hansom. "They call it the London gondola," she said, "but it is least comfortable when there's most water. You have to be framed in like a cucumber in a hothouse."
 
"Indeed! Personally I never travel in hansoms. And from what you tell me I should not like to make the experiment to-night. Good-bye, Miss Bell; present my regrets to your mother."
 
"Deuce take the donkey! He might at least offer me a seat in his carriage," thought Clorinda. Aloud she said: "Under the circumstances may I venture to ask you to see my mother at the house? Here is our private address. Won't you come to tea to-morrow?"
 
He took the card, bowed silently and withdrew.
 
In such wise the courtship proceeded for some weeks, the invalid⁵⁰ being confined to her room at teatime and occupied in picking up bouquets by night. He always came to tea in his cloak, and wore his Ironed Mask, and was extremely solicitous⁵¹ about Clorinda's mother. It became evident that so long as he had the ghost of an excuse for talking of the absent, he would never talk of Clorinda herself. At last she was reduced to intimating that she would be found at the matinée of a new piece next day (to be given at the theatre by a débutante) and that there would be plenty of room in her box. Clorinda was determined⁵² to eliminate her mother, who was now become an impediment instead of a pretext⁵³.
 
But when the afternoon came, she looked for him in vain. She chatted lightly with the acting-manager, who was lounging in the vestibule, but her eye was scanning the horizon feverishly⁵⁴.
 
"Is this woman going to be a success?" she asked.
 
"Oh, yes," said the acting-manager promptly⁵⁵.
 
"How do you know?"
 
 "I just saw the flowers drive up."‘
 
Clorinda laughed. "What's the piece like?"
 
"I only saw one rehearsal⁵⁶. It seemed great twaddle. But the low com. has got a good catchword, so there's some chance of its going into the evening bills."
 
"Oh, by the way, have you seen anything of that—that—the man in the Ironed Mask, I think they call him?"
 
 "Do you mean here—this afternoon?"
 
"Yes."
 
"No. Do you expect him?"
 
"Oh, no; but I was wondering if he would turn up. I hear he is so fond of this theatre."
 
"Bless your soul, he'd never be seen at a matinée."
 
"Why not?" asked Clorinda, her heart fluttering violently.
 
"Because he'd have to be in morning dress," said the actor-manager, laughing heartily⁵⁷.
 
To Clorinda his innocent merriment seemed the laughter of a mocking fiend. She turned away sick at heart. There was nothing for it but to propose outright⁵⁸ at teatime. Clorinda did so, and was accepted without further difficulty.
 
"And now, dearest," she said, after she had been allowed to press the first kiss of troth upon his coy lips, "I should like to know who I am going to be?"
 
"Clorinda Bell, of course," he said. "That is the advantage actresses have. They need not take their husband's name in vain."
 
"Yes, but what am I to call you, dearest?"
 
"Dearest?" he echoed enigmatically. "Let me be dearest—for a little while."
 
She forbore to press him further. For the moment it was enough to have won him. The sweetness of that soothed⁵⁹ her wounded vanity at his indifference⁶⁰ to the prize coveted⁶¹ by men and convents. Enough that she was to be mated to a great man, whose speech and silence alike bore the stamp of individuality.
 
"Dearest be it," she answered, looking fondly into his Moorish eyes. "Dearest! Dearest!"
 
"Thank you, Clorinda. And now may I see your mother? I have never learnt what she has to say to me."
 
"What does it matter now, dearest?"
 
 "More than ever," he said gravely, "now she is to be my mother-in-law."
 
Clorinda bit her lip at the dignified⁶² rebuke⁶³, and rang for his mother-in-law elect, who came from the sick room in her bonnet⁶⁴.
 
"Mother," she said, as the good dame sailed through the door, "let me introduce you to my future husband."
 
The old lady's face lit up with surprise and excitement. She stood still for an instant, taking in the relationship so suddenly sprung upon her. Then she darted⁶⁵ with open arms towards the Man in the Ironed Mask and strained his Mask to her bosom⁶⁶.
 
"My son! my son!" she cried, kissing him passionately⁶⁷. He blushed like a stormy sunset and tried to disengage himself.
 
"Do not crumple⁶⁸ him, mother," said Clorinda pettishly⁶⁹. "Your zeal²⁵ is overdone⁷⁰."
 
 "But he is my long-lost Absalom! Think of the rapture⁷¹ of having him restored to me thus. O what a happy family we shall be! Bless you, Clorinda. Bless you, my children. When is the wedding to be?"
 
The Man in the Ironed Mask had regained⁷² his composure.
 
"Mother," he said sternly, "I am glad to see you looking so well. I always knew you would fall on your feet if I dropped you. I have no right to ask it—but as you seem to expect me to marry your daughter, a little information as to the circumstances under which you have supplied me with a sister would be not unwelcome.
 
"Stupid boy! Don't you understand that Miss Bell was good enough to engage me as mother and travelling companion when you left me to starve? Or rather, the impresario⁷³ who brought her over from America engaged me, and Clorinda has been, oh, so good to me! My little drapery business failed three months after you left me to get a stranger to serve. I had no resource but—to go on the stage."
 
The old woman was babbling⁷⁴ on, but the cold steel of Clorinda's gaze silenced her.
 
The outraged⁷⁵ actress turned haughtily⁷⁶ to the Man in the Ironed Mask.
 
"So this is your mother?" she said with infinite scorn.
 
"So this is not your mother!" he said with infinite indignation.
 
"Were you ever really simple enough to suspect me of having a mother?" she retorted contemptuously. "I had her on the hire system. Don't you know that a combination of maid and mother is the newest thing in actresses' wardrobes? It is safer then having a maid, and more comfortable than having a mother."
 
"But I have been a mother to you, Clorinda," the old dame pleaded.
 
"Oh, yes, you have always been a good, obedient woman. I am not finding fault with you, and I have no wish to part with you. I do find fault and I shall certainly part with your son."
 
"Nonsense," said the Man in the Ironed Mask. "The situation is essentially⁷⁷ unchanged. She is still the mother of one of us, she can still become the mother-in-law of the other. Besides, Clorinda, that is the only way of keeping the secret in the family."
 
"You threaten?"
 
"Certainly. You are a humbug⁷⁸. So am I. United we stand. Separated, you fall."
 
"You fall, too."
 
"Not from such a height. I am still on the first rungs."
 
"Nor likely to get any higher."
 
"Indeed? Your experience of me should have taught you different. High as you are, I can raise you yet higher if you will only lift me up to you."
 
"How do you climb?" she said, his old ascendency reasserting itself.
 
"By standing⁷⁹ still. Profound meditation⁸⁰ on the philosophy of modern society has convinced me that the only way left for acquiring notoriety is to do nothing. Every other way has been exploited and is suspected. It is only a year since the discovery flashed upon me, it is only a year that I have been putting it in practice. And yet, mark the result! Already I am a known man. I had the entrée to no society; for half-a-guinea a night (frequently paid in paper money) I have mingled⁸¹ with the most exclusive. When there was no premiere anywhere, I went to see you—not from any admiration of you, but because the Lymarket is the haunt of the best society, and in addition, the virtue⁸² of Shakespeare and of yourself attracts there a highly respectable class of bishops⁸³ whom I have not the opportunity of meeting elsewhere. By  doing nothing I fascinated you—somebody was sure to be fascinated by it at last, as the dove flutters into the jaws⁸⁴ of the lethargic⁸⁵ serpent—by continuing to do nothing I completed my conquest. Had I met your advances, you would have repelled⁸⁶ mine. My theories have been completely demonstrated, and but for the accident of our having a common mother——"
 
"Speak for yourself," said Clorinda haughtily.
 
"It is for myself that I am speaking. When we are one, I shall continue this policy of masterly inactivity of which I claim the invention, though it has long been known in the germ. Everybody knows for instance that not to trouble to answer letters is the surest way of acquiring the reputation of a busy man, that not to accept invitations is an infallible way of getting more, that not to care a jot⁸⁷ about the feelings of the rest of the household, is an unfailing means of enforcing universal deference⁸⁸. But the glory still remains⁸⁹ to him who first grasped this great law in its generalized form, however familiar one or two isolated⁹⁰ cases of it may be to the world. 'Do nothing' is the last word of social science, as 'Nil⁹¹ admirari' was its first. Just as silence is less self-contradictory than speech, so is inaction a safer foundation of fame than action. Inaction is perfect. The moment you do anything you are in the region of incompleteness, of definiteness. Your work may be outdone—or undone⁹². Your inventions may be improved upon, your victories annulled⁹³, your popular books ridiculed⁹⁴, your theories superseded⁹⁵, your paintings decried⁹⁶, the seamy side of your explanations shown up. Successful doing creates not only enemies but the material for their malice⁹⁷ to work upon. Only by not having done anything to deserve success can you be sure of surviving the reaction which success always brings. To be is higher than to do. To be is calm, large, elemental; to do is trivial, artificial, fussy⁹⁸. To be has been the moth³ of  the English aristocracy, it is the secret of their persistence⁹⁹. Qui s'excuse s'accuse. He who strives to justify¹⁰⁰ his existence imperils it. To be is inexpugnable, to do is dangerous. The same principle rules in all departments of social life. What is a successful reception? A gathering¹⁰¹ at which everybody is. Nobody does anything. Nobody enjoys anything. There everybody is—if only for five minutes each, and whatever the crush and discomfort¹⁰². You are there—and there you are, don't you know? What is a social lion? A man who is everywhere. What is social ambition? A desire to be in better people's drawing-rooms. What is it for which people barter¹⁰³ health, happiness, even honor? To be on certain pieces of flooring inaccessible¹⁰⁴ to the mass. What is the glory of doing compared with the glory of being? Let others elect to do, I elect to be."
 
"So long as you do not choose to be my husband——"
 
"It is husband or brother," he said, threateningly.
 
"Of course. I become your sister by rejecting you, do I not?"
 
"Don't trifle. You understand what I mean. I will let the world know that your mother is mine."
 
They stood looking at each other in silent defiance¹⁰⁵. At last Clorinda spoke:
 
"A compromise! let the world know that my mother is yours."
 
"I see. Pose as your brother!"
 
"Yes. That will help you up a good many rungs. I shall not deny I am your sister. My mother will certainly not deny that you are her son."
 
"Done! So long as my theories are not disproved. Conjugate¹⁰⁶ the verb 'to be,' and you shall be successful. Let me see. How does it run? I am—your brother, thou art—my sister, she is—my mother,—we are—her children, you are—my womankind, they are—all spoofed."
 
 So the man in the Ironed Mask turned out to be the brother of the great and good actress, Clorinda Bell. And several people had known it all along, for what but fraternal interest had taken him so often to the Lymarket? And when his identity leaked out, Society ran after him, and he gave the interviewers interesting details of his sister's early years. And everyone spoke of his mother, and of his solicitous attendance upon her. And in due course the tale of his virtues¹⁰⁷ reached a romantic young heiress who wooed and won him. And so he continued being, till he was—no more. By his own request they buried him in an Ironed Mask, and put upon his tomb the profound inscription¹⁰⁸
 
"Here Lies the Man Who Was."
 
 
 
And this was why Clorinda, disgusted with men and lovers, and unable to marry her brother, caught at the notion of the Old Maids' Club and called upon Lillie.
 
It was almost as good a cover as a mother, and it was well to have something ready in case she lost her, as you cannot obtain a second mother even on the hire system. But Lord Silverdale's report consisted of one word, "Dangerous!"—and he rejoiced at the whim³³ which enabled him thus to protect the impulsive¹⁰⁹ little girl he loved.
 
Clorinda divined from Lillie's embarrassment¹¹⁰ next day that she was to be blackballed.
 
"I am afraid," she hastened to say, "that on second thoughts I must withdraw my candidature, as I could not make a practice of coming here without my mother."
 
Lillie referred to the rules. "Married women are admitted," she said simply. "I presume, therefore, your mother——"
 
 "It's just like your presumption," interrupted Clorinda, and flouncing angrily out of the Club, she invited a journalist to tea.
 
Next day the Moon said she was going to join the Old Maids' Club.’