Rosie smiled. “I don’t know what he’s called,” she said with a cool ironical carelessness that was genuinely _grande dame_. “You don’t know his name?” Mr. Mercaptan gave a roar and a squeal of delighted laughter. “But that’s _too_ good,” he said. “S—second floor, he wrote in the telegram.” Rosie was now perfectly at her ease. “When I saw your name, I thought it was his name. I must say,” she added, looking sideways at Mr. Mercaptan and at once dropping the magnolia petals of her eyelids, “it seemed to me a very charming name.” “You overwhelm me,” said Mr. Mercaptan, smiling all over his cheerful, snouty face. “As for _your_ name—I am too discreet a _galantuomo_ to ask. And, in any case, what _does_ it matter? A rose by any other name....” “But, as a matter of fact,” she said, raising and lowering once again her smooth, white lids, “my name does happen to be Rose; or, at any rate, Rosie.” “So you are sweet by right!” exclaimed Mr. Mercaptan, with a pretty gallantry which he was the first to appreciate. “Let’s order tea on the strength of it.” He jumped up and rang the bell. “How I congratulate myself on this astonishing piece of good fortune!” Rosie said nothing. This Mr. Mercaptan, she thought, seemed to be even more a man of the great artistic world than Toto. “What puzzles me,” he went on, “is why your anonymous friend should have chosen my address out of all the millions of others. He must know me, or, at any rate, know about me.” “I should imagine,” said Rosie, “that you have a lot of friends.” Mr. Mercaptan laughed—the whole orchestra, from bassoon to piccolo. “_Des amis, des amies_—with and without the mute ‘e,’” he declared. The aged and forbidding servant appeared at the door. “Tea for two, Mrs. Goldie.” Mrs. Goldie looked round the room suspiciously. “The other gentleman’s gone, has he?” she asked. And having assured herself of his absence, she renewed her complaint. “Shoving in like that,” she said. “Bolshevism, that’s what I——” “All right, all right, Mrs. Goldie. Let’s have our tea as quickly as possible.” Mr. Mercaptan held up his hand, authoritatively, with the gesture of a policeman controlling the traffic. “Very well, Master Paster.” Mrs. Goldie spoke with resignation and departed. “But tell me,” Mr. Mercaptan went on, “if it _isn’t_ indiscreet—what does your friend look like?” “W—well,” Rosie answered, “he’s fair, and though he’s quite young he wears a beard.” With her two hands she indicated on her own unemphatic bosom the contours of Toto’s broad blond fan. “A beard! But, good heavens,” Mr. Mercaptan slapped his thigh, “it’s Coleman, it’s obviously and undoubtedly Coleman!” “Well, whoever it was,” said Rosie severely, “he played a very stupid sort of joke.” “For which I thank him. _De tout mon cœur._” Rosie smiled and looked sideways. “All the same,” she said, “I shall give him a piece of my mind.”