George followed his glance.  A tall girl in a tailor-made suit of blue was coming towards them.  Even at a distance one caught the genial personality of the new arrival.  It seemed to go before her like a heartening breeze.  She picked her way carefully through the children crawling on the side walk.  She stopped for a moment and said something to one of them.  The child grinned.  Even the proprietor of the grocery store appeared to brighten up at the sight of her, as at the sight of some old friend.

“How’s business, Bill?” she called to him as she passed the spot where he stood brooding on the mortality of tomatoes.  And, though he replied “Rotten”, a faint, grim smile did nevertheless flicker across his tragic mask.

Billie Dore, who was one of the chorus of George Bevan’s musical comedy, had an attractive face, a mouth that laughed readily, rather bright golden hair (which, she was fond of insisting with perfect truth, was genuine though appearances were against it), and steady blue eyes.  The latter were frequently employed by her in quelling admirers who were encouraged by the former to become too ardent.  Billie’s views on the opposite sex who forgot themselves were as rigid as those of Lord Marshmoreton concerning thrips.  She liked men, and she would signify this liking in a practical manner by lunching and dining with them, but she was entirely self-supporting, and when men overlooked that fact she reminded them of it in no uncertain voice; for she was a girl of ready speech and direct.

“’Morning, George.  ’Morning, Mac.  Any mail?”

“I’ll see, miss.”

“How did your better four-fifths like the show, Mac?”

“I was just telling Mr. Bevan, miss, that the missus said she ’adn’t seen a livelier show for a long time.”

“Fine.  I knew I’d be a hit.  Well, George, how’s the boy this bright afternoon?”

“Limp and pessimistic.”

“That comes of sitting up till four in the morning with festive hams.”

“You were up as late as I was, and you look like Little Eva after a night of sweet, childish slumber.”

“Yes, but I drank ginger ale, and didn’t smoke eighteen cigars.  And yet, I don’t know.  I think I must be getting old, George.  All-night parties seem to have lost their charm.  I was ready to quit at one o’clock, but it didn’t seem matey.  I think I’ll marry a farmer and settle down.”

George was amazed.  He had not expected to find his present view of life shared in this quarter.

“I was just thinking myself,” he said, feeling not for the first time how different Billie was from the majority of those with whom his profession brought him in contact, “how flat it all was.  The show business I mean, and these darned first nights, and the party after the show which you can’t sidestep.  Something tells me I’m about through.”

Billie Dore nodded.