“What did he say to that?”

“I don’t exactly remember.  But it had a tremendous effect—­tremendous.  We became good friends almost immediately.”

“Quite so.  We miss you when you don’t come, Mr. Sinclair—­last Saturday night, for example.”

“I had to go to the Surprise Party.  Jimmy came here with tears in his eyes that morning.  ‘My show is tumbling to pieces,’ he said.  ’Sinclair, you’ve got to come to-night.’  Made me dine with him—­wouldn’t let me out of his sight.  We had to send a reporter to you and Llewellyn that night.”

“Mr. Sinclair, the notice made me weep.”

“I know.  All that about the costumes.  But what can you expect?  The man is as black as your hat.”

“We have to buy our own costumes,” said Hilda, with a glance at the floor, “and we haven’t any too much, you know, to do it on.”

“The toilettes in Her Second Son were simply magnificent.  Not to be surpassed on the boards of the Lyceum in tasteful design or richness of material.  They were ne plus ultra!” cried Mr. Sinclair.  “You will remember I said so in my critique.”

“I remember.  If I were you I wouldn’t go so far another time.  There’s a lot of cotton velvet and satin about it, you know, between ourselves, and Finnigan’s people will be getting the laugh on us.  That’s one of the things I wanted to mention.  Don’t be quite so good to us.  See?  Otherwise—­well, you know how Calcutta talks, and what a pretty girl Beryl Stacey is, for example.  Mrs. Sinclair mightn’t like it, and I don’t blame her.”

“As I said before, Miss Howe, you know the world.”

Mr. Sinclair replied with infinite mellow humour, and as Miss Howe had risen, he rose too, pulling down his waistcoat.

“There was just one other thing,” Hilda said, holding out her hand.  “Next Wednesday, you know, Rosa Norton takes her benefit.  Rosy’s as well known here as the Ochterlony monument; she’s been coming every cold weather for ten years, poor old Rosy.  Don’t you think you could do her a bit of an interview for Wednesday’s paper?  She’ll write up very well—­get her on variety entertainments in the Australian bush.”

Mr. Molyneux Sinclair looked pained to hesitate.  “Personally,” he said, confidentially, “I should like it immensely, and I dare say I could get it past the editor.  But we’re so short-handed.”

Miss Howe held up a forefinger which seemed luminous with solution.  “Don’t you bother,” she said, “I’ll do it for you; I’ll write it myself.  My ’prentice hand I’ll try on Rosy, and you shall have the result ready to print on Tuesday morning.  Will that do?”