“Well, will you take a girl from me and put her in the chorus and ask Darley with my compliments to give her hell?” “I conclude from this that you want to get back on some one who’s been pestering you to get a perfect lady on the stage.” “If I were not an honest man, I’d let you go on thinking that. But when she’s had three months of Darley, I’m going to ask you to give her a part in another show and then a lead and--” “My dear Lexley, you have only to command. I run my companies solely for your convenience.” “Seriously, Hubert, you can have first option on this girl at a hundred a week in town two years hence, and she’ll be cheap at that. Would you like to see her now?” “I hate looking at raw meat. What are her points?” “She can sing.” Mr. Rossiter shrugged his shoulders. “She’s nothing in my life for that,” he said. “She’s got youth.” “Flapper market’s depressed, Lexley. Give me experience all the time.” “Darley’s seeing to the experience. I tell you, Hubert--” “Oh, I know. The perfect Juliet. I’m always hearing of her. Never seen her yet.” Mr. Rossiter pressed a bell, and the immediacy of the response suggested that Mr. Claud Drayton, who entered, lived up to the part for which he was cast, of Field-Marshal to the Napoleon, Rossiter. “Got her with you, Chown?” asked Rossiter. “I did venture to bring her.” “You would. Drayton, Chown’s got a girl here. Chorus in ‘The Little Viennese’ for three months. Maisie in ‘The Girl from Honolulu’ after that. Get reports and let me see them. That’ll do. Good-by, Chown.” He pressed another bell and a shorthand typist appeared as if by magic: he was dictating letters to her before Chown and Drayton had left the room. It was efficiency raised to the histrionic degree.