"The nearest we shall ever get to jingling our money at this game," Sylvia said, "is jingling our landlady's ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lily, I think we're not meant for the stage. And yet, if I could only find my line, I believe.... I believe.... Oh, well, I can't, and so there's an end of it. But look here, winter's coming on. We've got nothing to wear. We haven't saved a penny. Ruin stares us in the face. Say something, Lily; do say something, or I shall scream." "I don't think we ought to have eaten those plums at dinner. They weren't really ripe," Lily said. "Well, anyhow, that solves the problem of the moment. Put your things on. You'd better come out and walk them off." They were playing in Eastbourne that week, where a sudden hot spell had prolonged the season farther into September than usual; a new company of entertainers known as "The Highwaymen" was attracting audiences almost as large as in the prime of summer. Sylvia and Lily paused to watch them from the tamarisks below the Marina. Suddenly Sylvia gave an exclamation. "I do believe that's Claude Raglan who's singing now. Do you remember, Lily, I told you about the Pink Pierrots? I'm sure it is." Presently the singer came round with the bag and a packet of his picture post-cards. Sylvia asked if he had a photograph of Claude Raglan. When he produced one she dug him in the ribs, and cried: "Claudie, you consumptive ass, don't you recognize me? Sylvia." He was delighted to see her again, and willingly accepted an invitation to supper after the show, if he might bring a friend with him. "Jack Airdale--an awfully decent fellow. Quite a good voice, too, though I think from the point of view of the show it's a mistake to have a high barytone when they've already got a tenor. However, he does a good deal of accompanying. In fact, he's a much better accompanist than he is singer." "I suppose you've got more girls than ever in love with you, now you wear a mask?" said Sylvia. Claude seemed doubtful whether to take this remark as a compliment to his voice or as an insult to his face. Finally he took it as a joke and laughed. "Just the same, I see," he said. "Always chaffing a fellow." Claude Raglan and Jack Airdale came to supper in due course. Sylvia liked Jack; he was a round-faced young man in the early twenties, with longish light hair that flopped all over his face when he became excited. Sylvia and he were good friends immediately and made a great deal of noise over supper, while Claude and Lily looked at each other. "How's the consumption, Claudie?" Sylvia asked. Claude sighed with a soulful glance at Lily's delicate form. "Don't imagine she's sympathizing with you," Sylvia cried. "She's only thinking about plums." "He's grown out of it," Airdale said. "Look at the length of his neck." "I have to wear these high collars. My throat...." Claude began. "Oh, shut up with your ailments," Sylvia interrupted.