It seemed rather sad she should be walking-on in a crowd to earn three shillings and sixpence. And with this reflection there came to Wynne an idea—one of the first that did not actually concern himself. It smote him gloriously, and sent a pulsation of delight throbbing through his veins. But all he said was: “You will come to the rooms after the play?” She hesitated. “I said I would not.” “But it’s your birthday.” “Then, if I shan’t disturb you.” “Even if you do, I want you to come.” “Very well. Will you wait for me?” “No. Follow me round. I’ve something to do first. Here, take a key and keep it if you will. I give you the freedom of the rooms.” “I wish you’d wait,” she said. “Sorry,” he replied, shaking his head. “After all, a birthday means very little to a man,” thought Eve. Yet she was disappointed he had refused so small a service. When his scene was over, Wynne dressed quickly and hurried from the theatre. In his pocket was a sum of six shillings and threepence. He counted it by touch as he walked down Maiden Lane and struck across Covent Garden. Before a modest wine shop in Endell Street he stopped and considered. In the window was a pyramid of champagne bottles, the base composed of magnums, the first tier of quarts, the second of pints, and, resting proudly on top, a single half-pint. Each size was carefully priced, even the tiny bottle showing a ticket on which was printed, “Two shillings and eightpence.” Wynne squared his shoulders and entered the shop with an air of some importance. “This Dry Royal,” he said, “is it a wine you can recommend?” “It is a very drinkable wine,” replied the merchant. “Of course it does not compare—” But Wynne interrupted with: “I’ll take one of the half-pints to sample.” “I have no half-pints.” “There is one in the window.” “It is not for sale.” “Why not?” “There is no demand for that size.” “I am supplying the demand.” His tone was irritatingly precise, and the merchant was offended. “I regret, sir, I cannot undertake to spoil my window dressing for so small an order.” He spoke with finality that could not be misconstrued. “Good God!” exclaimed Wynne. “You call it a small order? It is nearly half of all I possess. Am I to be cheated of a celebration for the sake of your damned ideas of symmetry?” His very genuine concern excited interest. “I should be very sorry to cheat you of anything,” came the answer in a more kindly voice. “Perhaps if you would explain—” “What explanation is needed? Why does any one buy champagne except to celebrate an event? Must I sacrifice the desire to please and the hope of giving a sparkle of happiness because your hide-bound conventions won’t let you knock the top off a triangle? Is the expression of a kindly wish to be nullified because my worldly wealth won’t run to a pint? Would you decline to serve a rich man with a quart because you stock magnums? There’s no damned sense of justice in it.”