“That was just like father,” said Jill softly.
“He was a prince.”
“But you aren't in the office now?”
“No. I found I had a knack of writing verses and things, and I wrote a few vaudeville songs. Then I came across a man named Bevan at a music-publisher's. He was just starting to write music, and we got together and turned out some vaudeville sketches, and then a manager sent for us to fix up a show that was dying on the road and we had the good luck to turn it into a success, and after that it was pretty good going. Managers are just like sheep. They know nothing whatever about the show business themselves, and they come flocking after anybody who looks as if he could turn out the right stuff. They never think any one any good except the fellow who had the last hit. So, while your luck lasts, you have to keep them off with a stick. Then you have a couple of failures, and they skip off after somebody else, till you have another success, and then they all come skipping back again, bleating plaintively. George Bevan got married the other day—you probably read about it—he married Lord Marshmoreton's daughter. Lucky devil!”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“You were faithful to my memory?” said Jill with a smile.
“I was.”
“It can't last,” said Jill, shaking her head. “One of these days you'll meet some lovely American girl and then you'll put a worm down her back or pull her hair or whatever it is you do when you want to show your devotion, and — What are you looking at? Is something interesting going on behind me?”
He had been looking past her out into the room.
“It's nothing,” he said. “Only there's a statuesque old lady about two tables back of you who has been staring at you, with intervals for refreshment, for the last five minutes. You seem to fascinate her.”
“An old lady?”
“Yes. With a glare! She looks like Dunsany's Bird of the Difficult Eye. Count ten and turn carelessly round. There, at that table. Almost behind you.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Jill.
She turned quickly round again.
“What's the matter? Do you know her? Somebody you don't want to meet?”
“It's Lady Underhill! And Derek's with her!”
Wally had been lifting his glass. He put it down rather suddenly.
“Derek?” he said.
“Derek Underhill. The man I'm engaged to marry.”
There was a moment's silence.
“Oh!” said Wally thoughtfully. “The man you're engaged to marry? Yes, I see!”
He raised his glass again, and drank its contents quickly.
2.
Jill looked at her companion anxiously. Recent events had caused her completely to forget the existence of Lady Underhill. She was always so intensely interested in what she happened to be doing at the moment that she often suffered these temporary lapses of memory. It occurred to her now,—too late, as usual,—that the Savoy Hotel was the last place in London where she should have come to supper with Wally. It was the hotel where Lady Underhill was staying. She frowned. Life had suddenly ceased to be careless and happy, and had become a problem-ridden thing, full of perplexity and misunderstandings.
“What shall I do?”
Wally Mason started at the sound of her voice. He appeared to be deep in thoughts of his own.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What shall I do?”
“I shouldn't be worried.”
“Derek will be awfully cross.”
Wally's good-humored mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Why?” he said. “There's nothing wrong in your having supper with an old friend.”
“N-no,” said Jill doubtfully. “But —”
“Derek Underhill,” said Wally reflectively. “Is that Sir Derek Underhill, whose name one's always seeing in the papers?”
“Derek is in the papers a lot. He's an M.P. and all sorts of things.”
“Good-looking fellow. Ah, here's the coffee.”
“I don't want any, thanks.”
“Nonsense. Why spoil your meal because of this? Do you smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
