Sally was puzzled. What could Fillmore be doing so far west? She had supposed him to be a permanent resident of New York. But, of course, your man of affairs and vast interests flits about all over the place. At any rate, here he was, and she called him. And, after he had stood in the doorway looking in every direction except the right one for another minute, he saw her and came over to her table. “Why, Sally?” His manner, she thought, was nervous--one might almost have said embarrassed. She attributed this to a guilty conscience. Presently he would have to break to her the news that he had become engaged to be married without her sisterly sanction, and no doubt he was wondering how to begin. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Europe.” “I got back a week ago, but I've been nursing poor old Mr. Faucitt ever since then. He's been ill, poor old dear. I've come here to see Mr. Foster's play, 'The Primrose Way,' you know. Is it a success?” “It hasn't opened yet.” “Don't be silly, Fill. Do pull yourself together. It opened last Monday.” “No, it didn't. Haven't you heard? They've closed all the theatres because of this infernal Spanish influenza. Nothing has been playing this week. You must have seen it in the papers.” “I haven't had time to read the papers. Oh, Fill, what an awful shame!” “Yes, it's pretty tough. Makes the company all on edge. I've had the darndest time, I can tell you.” “Why, what have you got to do with it?” Fillmore coughed. “I--er--oh, I didn't tell you that. I'm sort of--er--mixed up in the show. Cracknell--you remember he was at college with me--suggested that I should come down and look at it. Shouldn't wonder if he wants me to put money into it and so on.” “I thought he had all the money in the world.” “Yes, he has a lot, but these fellows like to let a pal in on a good thing.” “Is it a good thing?” “The play's fine.” “That's what Mr. Faucitt said. But Mabel Hobson...” Fillmore's ample face registered emotion. “She's an awful woman, Sally! She can't act, and she throws her weight about all the time. The other day there was a fuss about a paper-knife...” “How do you mean, a fuss about a paper-knife?” “One of the props, you know. It got mislaid. I'm certain it wasn't my fault...” “How could it have been your fault?” asked Sally wonderingly. Love seemed to have the worst effects on Fillmore's mentality. “Well--er--you know how it is. Angry woman... blames the first person she sees... This paper-knife...” Fillmore's voice trailed off into pained silence. “Mr. Faucitt said Elsa Doland was good.”