His wife crumbled bread.

“I think she must know you, Reggie dear,” she said softly.  “She’s waving to you.”

“She’s waving to me,” said George, bringing back the sunshine to Reggie’s life, and causing the latter’s face to lose its hunted look.  “I know her very well.  Her name’s Dore.  Billie Dore.”

“Old man,” said Reggie, “be a good fellow and slide over to their table and cover our retreat.  I know there’s nothing to be afraid of really, but I simply can’t face the old boy.”

“And break the news to him that I’ve gone, Mr. Bevan,” added Alice.

“Very well, I’ll say good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Bevan, and thank you ever so much.”

Reggie shook George’s hand warmly.

“Good-bye, Bevan old thing, you’re a ripper.  I can’t tell you how bucked up I am at the sportsmanlike way you’ve rallied round.  I’ll do the same for you one of these days.  Just hold the old boy in play for a minute or two while we leg it.  And, if he wants us, tell him our address till further notice is Paris.  What ho!  What ho!  What ho!  Toodle-oo, laddie, toodle-oo!”

George threaded his way across the room.  Billie Dore welcomed him with a friendly smile.  The earl, who had turned to observe his progress, seemed less delighted to see him.  His weather-beaten face wore an almost furtive look.  He reminded George of a schoolboy who has been caught in some breach of the law.

“Fancy seeing you here, George!” said Billie.  “We’re always meeting, aren’t we?  How did you come to separate yourself from the pigs and chickens?  I thought you were never going to leave them.”

“I had to run up on business,” explained George.  “How are you, Lord Marshmoreton?”

The earl nodded briefly.

“So you’re on to him, too?” said Billie.  “When did you get wise?”

“Lord Marshmoreton was kind enough to call on me the other morning and drop the incognito.”

“Isn’t dadda the foxiest old thing!” said Billie delightedly.  “Imagine him standing there that day in the garden, kidding us along like that!  I tell you, when they brought me his card last night after the first act and I went down to take a slant at this Lord Marshmoreton and found dadda hanging round the stage door, you could have knocked me over with a whisk-broom.”

“I have not stood at the stage-door for twenty-five years,” said Lord Marshmoreton sadly.

“Now, it’s no use your pulling that Henry W. Methuselah stuff,” said Billie affectionately.  “You can’t get away with it.  Anyone can see you’re just a kid.  Can’t they, George?” She indicated the blushing earl with a wave of the hand.  “Isn’t dadda the youngest thing that ever happened?”

“Exactly what I told him myself.”

Lord Marshmoreton giggled.  There is no other verb that describes the sound that proceeded from him.

“I feel young,” he admitted.