“Oh, she's all right,” said Fillmore indifferently. “But--” His face brightened and animation crept into his voice. “But the girl you want to watch is Miss Winch. Gladys Winch. She plays the maid. She's only in the first act, and hasn't much to say, except 'Did you ring, madam?' and things like that. But it's the way she says 'em! Sally, that girl's a genius! The greatest character actress in a dozen years! You mark my words, in a darned little while you'll see her name up on Broadway in electric light. Personality? Ask me! Charm? She wrote the words and music! Looks?...” “All right! All right! I know all about it, Fill. And will you kindly inform me how you dared to get engaged without consulting me?” Fillmore blushed richly. “Oh, do you know?” “Yes. Mr. Faucitt told me.” “Well...” “Well?” “Well, I'm only human,” argued Fillmore. “I call that a very handsome admission. You've got quite modest, Fill.” He had certainly changed for the better since their last meeting. It was as if someone had punctured him and let out all the pomposity. If this was due, as Mr. Faucitt had suggested, to the influence of Miss Winch, Sally felt that she could not but approve of the romance. “I'll introduce you sometime,' said Fillmore. “I want to meet her very much.” “I'll have to be going now. I've got to see Bunbury. I thought he might be in here.” “Who's Bunbury?” “The producer. I suppose he is breakfasting in his room. I'd better go up.” “You are busy, aren't you. Little marvel! It's lucky they've got you to look after them.” Fillmore retired and Sally settled down to wait for Gerald, no longer hurt by his manner over the telephone. Poor Gerald! No wonder he had seemed upset. A few minutes later he came in. “Oh, Jerry darling,” said Sally, as he reached the table, “I'm so sorry. I've just been hearing about it.” Gerald sat down. His appearance fulfilled the promise of his voice over the telephone. A sort of nervous dullness wrapped him about like a garment. “It's just my luck,” he said gloomily. “It's the kind of thing that couldn't happen to anyone but me. Damned fools! Where's the sense in shutting the theatres, even if there is influenza about? They let people jam against one another all day in the stores. If that doesn't hurt them why should it hurt them to go to theatres? Besides, it's all infernal nonsense about this thing. I don't believe there is such a thing as Spanish influenza. People get colds in their heads and think they're dying. It's all a fake scare.” “I don't think it's that,” said Sally. “Poor Mr. Faucitt had it quite badly. That's why I couldn't come earlier.” Gerald did not seem interested either by the news of Mr. Faucitt's illness or by the fact that Sally, after delay, had at last arrived. He dug a spoon sombrely into his grape-fruit.