“I can’t throw her out without Mr. Chown’s orders, and Mr. Chown’s in Paris.”

“Then you refuse?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m not going on again to-night, not if I know it.  I’m not going to be insulted in my own theatre.”

“It’s not the girl’s fault.  You know they haven’t got room to move.”

“I don’t know anything about that and I don’t care.  All I know is that I’ve finished with that squint-eyed woman, and you can choose right now between her and me.  And so that’s that.”

Miss Fiddle’s fragile complexion had approached to within six inches of the stage-manager’s broad and shiny features, and it had little resemblance to any of the various faces which audiences associated with the figure of Eliza Fiddle; it was a face voluptuously distorted by the violence of emotion.  As Miss Fiddle appeared to be under the impression that she was alone with the stage-manager, Mr. Prohack rendered justice to that impression by softly departing.  Ozzie followed.  The stage-manager also followed.  “Where are you going?” they heard Eliza’s voice behind them addressing the stage-manager.

“I’m going to tell your under-study to get ready quick.”

An enormous altercation uprose, and faces peeped from every door in the corridor; but Mr. Prohack stayed not.  Ozzie led him to Mr. Asprey Chown’s private room.  The Terror of the departments was shaken.  Ozzie laughed gently as he shut the door.

“What will happen?” asked Mr. Prohack, affecting a gaiety he did not feel.

“What do you think will happen?” simpered Ozzie blandly, “having due regard to the fact that Miss Fiddle has to choose between three hundred and fifty pounds a week and a law-suit with Chown involving heavy damages?  I must say there’s nobody like Blaggs for keeping these three hundred and fifty pound a week individuals in order.  Chown would sooner lose forty of them than lose Blaggs.  And Eliza knows it.  By the way, what do you think of the show?”

“Will it succeed?”

“You should see the advance booking.  There’s a thousand pounds in the house to-night.  Chown will be clearing fifteen hundred a week when he’s paid off his production.”

“Well, it’s marvellous.”

“You don’t mean the show?”

“No.  The profit.”

“I agree,” simpered Ozzie.

“I’m beginning to like this sizzling idiot,” thought Mr. Prohack, as it were regretfully.  They left the imperial richness of Mr. Chown’s private room like brothers.

IV

When Mr. Prohack touched the handle of the door of the box, he felt as though he were returning to civilisation; he felt less desolated by the immediate past and by the prospect of the immediate future; he was yearning for the society of mere women after his commerce with a star at three hundred and fifty pounds a week.  True, he badly wanted to examine his soul and enquire into his philosophy of life, but he was prepared to postpone that inquest until the society of mere women had had a beneficial effect on him.