He was writing to Rupert; so would she write to Rupert. She would assume, and she had her shrewd idea that the assumption was correct, that Rupert’s views of Staithley marched with her own. She would paint in lurid colors a picture of life in Staithley; she would exhibit William, his furrowed brow, his whitening hair, as an awful warning; she would enlarge upon the post-war difficulties, so immensely more wearisome than in Sir Philip’s time. She would suggest that the accountants’ letter was a salvation, a means honorable and reasonable, of cutting the entail, of escaping from the Service. And she would tell him to regard her letter as confidential. She had no doubt whatever of her success with Rupert and as to William, waverer was written all over him. Rupert’s decision would decide William, and the William Hepplestalls would go to London. There were housing troubles, but if you had money and if you took time by the forelock, trouble melted. She proceeded to take time by the forelock and wrote to Lady Duxbury to ask her to keep an eye open for a large house near her own. She whispered to her dearest Connie in the very, very strictest confidence that Hepplestall’s was going to be sold. CHAPTER IX--MARY ARDEN’S HUSBAND GIVE up the stage!” echoed Mr. Chown, assuming an appearance of thunderstruck amazement. “Don’t act at me, my friend,” said Mary. “You must have had the probability in mind ever since I told you I was married.” He had; that was the worst of women; an agent sweated blood to make a woman into a star, and the thankless creature manned and retired. But Mary had not immediately retired and he thought he had reasonable grounds for hoping that she would continue to pay him his commission for many years; a woman who married well and yet remained on the stage could surely be acting only because she liked it, and Mr. Chown had a lure to dangle before her which could hardly fail of its effect upon any actress who cared two straws for her profession. He remembered the day when he had rung up Rossiter and had said, “Mary’s married,” and Rossiter had replied, “Right, I’ll watch her,” and, a little later, had told him “Mary will do. She can play Sans-Gêne.” That was the bait he had for Mary. When (if ever), London tired of “Granada the Gay,” she was to play Sans-Gêne. She was to stand absolutely at the head of her profession. He reviewed musical comedy and could think of no woman’s part in all its repertoire which was so signally the blue riband of the lighter stage; and Rossiter destined it for the wear of Mary Arden! “Listen to this, Mary. Do you know what Rossiter is doing next?” “I’ll see it from the stalls,” she said. “No. You’ll be it. You’ll be Sans-Gêne in ‘The Duchess of Dantzig.’ ” “I didn’t tell you I’m retiring from the stage, did I? All I said was that it’s possible.” “Ah!” said Chown, watching his bait at work. “You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong.” He put his hand on hers. “Am I, Mary? Absolutely?”