_Woman_: How much is six months' screw? _Man_: Three thousand. _Woman_: Well, I can hardly earn that myself. _Man_: Neither can I. But then you see we weren't born in Chicago. _Woman_: I've been offered a thousand dollars a week to go there, anyhow. _Man_: Why didn't you tell me that for the interview? I've spent two entire entr'actes in trying to get something interesting out of you, and there you go and keep a thing like that up your sleeve. It's not fair to an old and faithful admirer. I shall stick it in. Poulet chasseur? _Woman_: Oh no! Couldn't dream of it. Didn't you know I was dieting? Nothing saucy. No sugar. No bread. No tea. Thanks to that I've lost nearly a stone in six months. You know I _was_ getting enormous. _Man_: Let me put _that_ in, eh? _Woman_: Just try, and see what happens to you! _Man_: Well, shall we say a lettuce salad, and a Perrier and soda? I'm dieting, too. _Waiter_: Lettuce salad, and a Perrier and soda? Yes, sir. _Woman_: You aren't very gay. _Man_: Gay! You don't know all the yearnings of my soul. Don't imagine that because I'm a special of the _Record_ I haven't got a soul. _Woman_: I suppose you've been reading that book, Omar Khayyam, that every one's talking about. Isn't that what it's called? _Man_: Has Omar Khayyam reached the theatrical world? Well, there's no doubt the earth does move, after all. _Woman_: A little more soda, please. And just a trifle less impudence. What book ought one to be reading, then? _Man_: Socialism's the thing just now. Read Wells on Socialism. It'll be all over the theatrical world in a few years' time. _Woman_: No fear! I can't bear Wells. He's always stirring up the dregs. I don't mind froth, but I do draw the line at dregs. What's the band playing? What have you been doing to-day? _Is_ this lettuce? No, no! No bread. Didn't you hear me tell you? _Man_: I've been busy with the Priam Farll affair. _Woman_: Priam Farll? _Man_: Yes. Painter. _You_ know. _Woman_: Oh yes. _Him_! I saw it on the posters. He's dead, it seems. Anything mysterious? _Man_: You bet! Very odd! Frightfully rich, you know! Yet he died in a wretched hovel of a place down off the Fulham Road. And his valet's disappeared. We had the first news of the death, through our arrangement with all the registrars' clerks in London. By the bye, don't give that away--it's our speciality. Nasing sent me off at once to write up the story. _Woman_: Story? _Man_: The particulars. We always call it a story in Fleet Street. _Woman_: What a good name! Well, did you find out anything interesting? _Man_: Not very much. I saw his cousin, Duncan Farll, a money-lending lawyer in Clement's Lane--he only heard of it because we telephoned to him. But the fellow would scarcely tell me anything at all. _Woman_: Really! I do hope there's something terrible. _Man_: Why?