“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.

“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.”

Mac leaned his massive shoulders comfortably against the building, and resumed his chat.

“I expect you’re feeling very ‘appy today, sir?”

George pondered. He was certainly feeling better since he had seen Billie Dore, but he was far from being himself.

“I ought to be, I suppose. But I’m not.”

“Ah, you’re getting blarzy, sir, that’s what it is. You’ve ‘ad too much of the fat, you ‘ave. This piece was a big ‘it in America, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It ran over a year in New York, and there are three companies of it out now.”

“That’s ‘ow it is, you see. You’ve gone and got blarzy. Too big a ‘elping of success, you’ve ‘ad.” Mac wagged a head like a harvest moon. “You aren’t a married man, are you, sir?”

Billie Dore finished skimming through her mail, and crumpled the letters up into a large ball, which she handed to Mac.

“Here’s something for you to read in your spare moments, Mac. Glance through them any time you have a suspicion you may be a chump, and you’ll have the comfort of knowing that there are others. What were you saying about being married?”

“Mr. Bevan and I was ‘aving a talk about ‘im being blarzy, miss.”

“Are you blarzy, George?”

“So Mac says.”

“And why is he blarzy, miss?” demanded Mac rhetorically.

“Don’t ask me,” said Billie. “It’s not my fault.”

“It’s because, as I was saying, ‘e’s ‘ad too big a ‘elping of success, and because ‘e ain’t a married man. You did say you wasn’t a married man, didn’t you, sir?”

“I didn’t. But I’m not.”

“That’s ‘ow it is, you see. You pretty soon gets sick of pulling off good things, if you ain’t got nobody to pat you on the back for doing of it. Why, when I was single, if I got ‘old of a sure thing for the three o’clock race and picked up a couple of quid, the thrill of it didn’t seem to linger somehow. But now, if some of the gentlemen that come ‘ere put me on to something safe and I make a bit, ‘arf the fascination of it is taking the stuff ‘ome and rolling it on to the kitchen table and ‘aving ‘er pat me on the back.”

“How about when you lose?”

“I don’t tell ‘er,” said Mac simply.

“You seem to understand the art of being happy, Mac.”

“It ain’t an art, sir. It’s just gettin’ ‘old of the right little woman, and ‘aving a nice little ‘ome of your own to go back to at night.”

“Mac,” said Billie admiringly, “you talk like a Tin Pan Alley song hit, except that you’ve left out the scent of honeysuckle and Old Mister Moon climbing up over the trees. Well, you’re quite right. I’m all for the simple and domestic myself. If I could find the right man, and he didn’t see me coming and duck, I’d become one of the Mendelssohn’s March Daughters right away. Are you going, George? There’s a rehearsal at two-thirty for cuts.”