With characteristic amiability, combined with that courage which had caused impatient people, who snubbed her in vain, to say she had the hide of a rhinoceros, Miss Luscombe had accepted the blow of Rathbone's proposal—the proposal which she had taken for an offer of marriage, but which was really an offer to go on the stage. She set to work at once making little efforts (most of which she knew to be futile) to arrange the matter. After all, if she should succeed in getting him some sort of a part, mightn't he, out of gratitude?... And she saw visions. Again, he had evidently got it very badly, this mania for acting and dressing up, and he had really quite enough money, if he chose to devote it to this object only; why shouldn't he take a theatre—make himself the manager and jeune premier, or, for the matter of that, vieux dernier—it really didn't matter—and let her be the leading lady? That was if he failed in every other scheme. She wrote letters to various people whom she knew on the stage, mentioning Rathbone's enormous willingness to take anything, his gentlemanly appearance, and, she felt sure, really some talent, though no experience. Most people took no notice, but after a while she received an offer for him to play one of the gentlemen in the chorus of Our Miss Gibbs in a second-rate little touring company of the smaller northern provincial towns.

It was an excuse for an interview, certainly; but this for a man who wished to play Romeo! And if, in his enthusiasm, he should actually accept it, it would take him away from her. However, hearing that she had some news for him, he, in his delighted gratitude, asked her to tea at the Carlton.

They were seated in the Palm Court eating their tea-cakes and sandwiches to the sound of "The Teddy Bear's Picnic," which made one feel cheerful and reckless, followed by "Simple Aveu," a thin, sentimental solo on the violin that made one feel resigned and melancholy. It was played by a man with a three-cornered face and a very bald head, who gazed at the ceiling as if in a kind of swoon—a swoon that might have been induced either by tender ecstasy or acute boredom.All around them were noisy Americans, neatly dressed, and a good many prim, self-conscious ladies on the stage who had come on from their matinÉes and were accompanied mostly either by very young and rather chinless adorers, or by fat, fatuous men with dark moustaches, hair inclined to curl, and clothes a shade too gorgeous.

Here and there a simple, provincial-looking family were to be seen who had come up for a few days and had been to an afternoon performance, and were talking with great animation of the rights and wrongs of the hero and heroine of the play. It was characteristic of the provincials that they were really excited about the play itself, hardly knowing who were performing, while the suburbanites took interest only in the actors, all of whom they knew well by name and reputation, even their private life—at least, as much of it as got into the Prattler, The Perfect Lady, and Home Chirps.

On the whole it was a very characteristic London crowd, in that it consisted almost entirely of desirable aliens. Here and there, indeed, one saw a thin, slim, pretty woman with a happy but bothered-looking young man, both obviously English, who talked in low tones, and were evidently at some stage or other of a rose-coloured romance; but they were the exception.

Amidst this noisy and confused clientÈle, with its showy clothes and obvious feminine charms, Miss Luscombe looked a strange, stray, untidy hothouse plant. She was odd and artificial, and dressed like nothing on earth, in pale and faded colours; but she was not vulgar. She was rather queer and delicate, and intensely amiable. Her self-consciousness made no claim on one; she was not exacting—always pleased and good-tempered. Rathbone recognised these qualities in her, and liked her better to-day, amidst the scent of the tea-cakes and cigarettes and the whine of the violin, than he had ever liked her before.

Pink, fair, calm, clean, and really hardly anything else, except extremely correct, and always good form, without being too noticeably so, no one would have dreamed that this quiet young man, who looked like a shy subaltern, was simply dying to disport himself on the stage, and that it was the dream of his life to make an utter ass of himself as Hamlet, or a hopeless fool of himself as (say) the hero in Still Waters Run Deep—a play he had seen as a boy and had always longed to act in.

She had broken the news to him.

"Miss Luscombe, do you mean to say that is the very best you can do for me?"

She explained the difficulties.

He was only one of so many! Unless the name was known it was frightfully difficult—even for geniuses—to get on. Of course, he might try, and go and see the various managers himself, but, frankly, probably nothing would come of it.

He was deeply depressed. What should she suggest?

"Might I ask if you care very, very much?" she asked.

"You might. I do." Yes. His heart was set on it.

Was it really? Well, if he simply hadn't the strength to go on living another day without going on the stage, the only thing, clearly, was just to hire a theatre and go on! A matinÉe, perhaps. Why not Romeo?

"And why not Juliet?" said he, rather rashly.

"Oh, that would be lovely!"

Her attention wandered at this moment. A very pretty, fair woman was rising from behind a palm where she had been seated with her back to the room. She went out rather quickly, followed by a good-looking young man with a single eye-glass.

"They have been trying to hide!" she exclaimed. "What a joke! It's that sweet Valentia Wyburn and Harry de Freyne. They must have been here when we arrived, for we should have seen them come in. I wonder what they came for?""To have tea, perhaps?" suggested Rathbone, after deep thought, shrewdly.

"Yes, yes, I know. But why hide like that?"

"Perhaps they didn't want to be seen," said Rathbone brilliantly.

"Yes, of course, but why not? I hope it doesn't show...."

"Well, it shows there's nothing in it, or they wouldn't come here."

"Does it?" said Miss Luscombe, rather disappointed.

"Well, where's the harm in being here? Ain't we here?"

"Oh yes, of course; but that's different. They're cousins, too, of course; I had forgotten."

"I don't see why you should worry if Romer doesn't," said Rathbone.

Before they left Rathbone had very nearly promised to see about engaging a theatre, and either for a charity or as an invitation matinÉe, rope, as he expressed it, all his friends in, lock the door, and force them to see him play Romeo to Miss Luscombe's Juliet.

Flora was deliriously happy at the idea, but had too much experience to rely on it, and was quite prepared to be thrown over for another more professional actress, and asked to play one of the ladies at the ball in the first act instead, probably in a mask. She went home and read over her one good notice—a great treasure—that had appeared in an evening paper, and had spoken of her as "a young actress with a bright and winsome personality." That was in a very small part, ten years ago. Would she ever get another real chance?