'Awfully good of you to see me!' began Doxey, depositing his well-preserved hat on a chair. 'Hope I don't interrupt.' He smiled. 'Can't stop a minute. Got a most infernal bazaar on at the Cecil. Look here, old man,' he addressed Henry: 'I've been reading your _Love in Babylon_ again, and I fancied I could make a little curtain-raiser out of it--out of the picture incident, you know. I mentioned the idea to Pilgrim, of the Prince's Theatre, and he's fearfully stuck on it.' 'You mean, you think he is,' Geraldine put in. 'Well, he is,' Doxey pursued, after a brief pause. 'I'm sure he is. I've sketched out a bit of a scenario. Now, if you'd give permission and go shares, I'd do it, old chap.' 'A play, eh?' was all that Henry said. Doxey nodded. 'There's nothing like the theatre, you know.' 'What do you mean--there's nothing like the theatre?' 'For money, old chap. Not short pieces, of course, but long ones; only, short ones lead to long ones.' 'I tell you what you'd better do,' said Henry, when they had discussed the matter. 'You'd better write the thing, and I'll have a look at it, and then decide.' 'Very well, if you like,' said Doxey slowly. 'What about shares?' 'If it comes to anything, I don't mind halving it,' Henry replied. 'I see,' said Doxey. 'Of course, I've had some little experience of the stage,' he added. His name was one of those names which appear from time to time in the theatrical gossip of the newspapers as having adapted, or as being about to adapt, something or other for the stage which was not meant for the stage. It had never, however, appeared on the playbills of the theatres; except once, when, at a benefit matinee, the great John Pilgrim, whom to mention is to worship, had recited verses specially composed for the occasion by Alfred Doxey. 'And the signature, dear?' Geraldine glanced up at her husband, offering him a suggestion humbly, as a wife should in the presence of third parties. 'Oh!' said Henry. 'Of course, Mr. Doxey's name must go with mine, as one of the authors of the piece. Certainly.' 'Dearest,' Geraldine murmured when Doxey had gone, 'you are perfect. You don't really need an agent.' He laughed. 'There's rather too much "old chap" about Doxey,' he said. 'Who's Doxey?' 'He's quite harmless, the little creature,' said Geraldine good-naturedly. They sat silent for a time. 'Miles Robinson makes fifteen thousand a year out of plays,' Geraldine murmured reflectively. 'Does he?' Henry murmured reflectively. The cavalry arrived, in full panoply of war. 'I am thankful Sarah stays with us,' said Mrs. Knight. 'Servants are so much more difficult to get now than they were in my time.' Tea was nearly over; the cake-stand in four storeys had been depleted from attic to basement, and, after admiring the daintiness and taste displayed throughout Mrs. Henry's drawing-room, the ladies from Dawes Road had reached the most fascinating of all topics.