But when humbug was offered to it of such rare and golden quality that its exploitation should have been repaid a hundred times over, the stage would have none of it. Dora had been unable to penetrate further into the legitimate drama which she felt herself called upon to enrich, than the stage-door-keeper’s box. Refusing to be beaten (she had no need of the money, but she was determined by hook or by crook to get on that elusive stage), Dora had abandoned the idea of legitimate drama for the time being and expressed her willingness to adorn the chorus of a revue, comforting herself with the reflection that not a few great stars have risen from the musical ranks to legitimate heights. She had at once obtained the position to which her face and figure entitled her and, after a year in the provinces, had for the last six months been adorning the front row of the Mammoth Chorus at the Palladeum. She was now rehearsing a production which was to open the following week, and so was at liberty to present herself, with her fiancé, at a Saturday to Monday housewarming for George. Only once had either of the Miss Howards met their match, and that was when a certain Mr. Doyle irritably besought Dora five months ago, within twenty minutes of the opening of their acquaintance, “for Heaven’s sake not to try and pull that moon-eyed, baby-voiced stuff on him. He wasn’t born yesterday, and he didn’t like it. In short, her artless behaviour left Mr. Doyle not only cold but weary.” Dora was so taken aback that for the first time in her life she became perfectly natural with a complete stranger. The sequel was inevitable. When four days later the volatile Mr. Doyle, touched apparently by this complimentary change of front, besought her hand in marriage, she kept her whirling head long enough to accept him on the spot; she felt she had at last met her master, and the sensation though novel was by no means disagreeable. Since then they had remained engaged, in spite of all expectations to the contrary, their own included; indeed, Mr. Doyle had gone so far as to inform his fiancée with engaging candour that this was the longest period he had ever been engaged to any one girl. They were now even beginning to think quite seriously of the possibility of really getting married some day if Mr. Doyle could scrape together the capital on which to do so. In spite of Cynthia’s assurances, Guy Nesbitt was not on hand when the quartet arrived. With a face like a high priest’s he was performing solemn rites in the dining-room over a bottle of port and a decanter, and Cynthia had to welcome her guests in the drawing-room alone.