“Anybody with any sense is always about through with the show business.  I know I am.  If you think I’m wedded to my art, let me tell you I’m going to get a divorce the first chance that comes along.  It’s funny about the show business.  The way one drifts into it and sticks, I mean.  Take me, for example.  Nature had it all doped out for me to be the Belle of Hicks Corners.  What I ought to have done was to buy a gingham bonnet and milk cows.  But I would come to the great city and help brighten up the tired business man.”

“I didn’t know you were fond of the country, Billie.”

“Me?  I wrote the words and music.  Didn’t you know I was a country kid?  My dad ran a Bide a Wee Home for flowers, and I used to know them all by their middle names.  He was a nursery gardener out in Indiana.  I tell you, when I see a rose nowadays, I shake its hand and say:  ’Well, well, Cyril, how’s everything with you?  And how are Joe and Jack and Jimmy and all the rest of the boys at home?’ Do you know how I used to put in my time the first few nights I was over here in London?  I used to hang around Covent Garden with my head back, sniffing.  The boys that mess about with the flowers there used to stub their toes on me so often that they got to look on me as part of the scenery.”

“That’s where we ought to have been last night.”

“We’d have had a better time.  Say, George, did you see the awful mistake on Nature’s part that Babe Sinclair showed up with towards the middle of the proceedings?  You must have noticed him, because he took up more room than any one man was entitled to.  His name was Spenser Gray.”

George recalled having been introduced to a fat man of his own age who answered to that name.

“It’s a darned shame,” said Billie indignantly.  “Babe is only a kid.  This is the first show she’s been in.  And I happen to know there’s an awfully nice boy over in New York crazy to marry her.  And I’m certain this gink is giving her a raw deal.  He tried to get hold of me about a week ago, but I turned him down hard; and I suppose he thinks Babe is easier.  And it’s no good talking to her; she thinks he’s wonderful.  That’s another kick I have against the show business.  It seems to make girls such darned chumps.  Well, I wonder how much longer Mr. Arbuckle is going to be retrieving my mail.  What ho, within there, Fatty!”

Mac came out, apologetic, carrying letters.

“Sorry, miss.  By an oversight I put you among the G’s.”

“All’s well that ends well.  ‘Put me among the G’s.’  There’s a good title for a song for you, George.  Excuse me while I grapple with the correspondence.  I’ll bet half of these are mash notes.  I got three between the first and second acts last night.  Why the nobility and gentry of this burg should think that I’m their affinity just because I’ve got golden hair—­which is perfectly genuine, Mac; I can show you the pedigree—­and because I earn an honest living singing off the key, is more than I can understand.”