“That’s so characteristic of Mark, isn’t it? But of course, Carlson was kind to him. The dear old man’s bark was much worse than his bite. Good heavens how frightened I was of him! I see that Mark acted in a couple of Red Cross shows? I expect that all his old matinée girls turned out and cried for joy.... But I do think that Mark was something more than a flapper’s dream of heaven. Still, he must like management better. He never thought more of acting than that it was a job, did he?” She sighed, “One has to think more of it than that to get on.” Gurdy wished that this woman didn’t embarrass him, resenting her perfumed cigarette and the real, frail loveliness of her hands. The embarrassment ended. Rand told the amateurs that they weren’t half bad and departed with his wife, a trim, boyish figure behind her velvet bulk. Colonel Dufford implored the grouped players to learn their lines. Margot was much kissed by the other girls, dismissed them and came in a sort of dance step to ask Gurdy what he thought of her acting. “Couldn’t hear you. I had to talk to Miss Boyle. Ugly voice she has. Are people really crazy about her here?” Margot frowned and pursed her lips, tapping a cigarette on a nail. “Oh, she has a following. They don’t dither about her as they do over Elsie whatsername and some of the other Americans. Dull, isn’t she?” “Very. She made a point of talking about Mark.--Lady Ilden’s all broken up, isn’t she?” “She’s too repressed,” Margot explained. “Tried not to show it when Bobby fell and so she’s been showing it ever since. And Sir John’s been at sea constantly and that’s a strain. He’s in Paris, now.--You don’t show your feelings at all, do you? I was watching you talk to the Boyle and you beamed very nicely. And you must have been bored. One of those rather sticky women. Come and play pool. There’s an American table.” He played pool and stolidly listened to her ripple of comments. She had a natural disrespect for the American army that flashed up. “The men did all they could, I dare say, but, my God, Gurdy, what thugs the officers were! Some of them turned up at a garden party where the King dropped in and he went to speak to one. The thing was cleaning its nails in a corner and it shook hands with its pocket knife in the other hand. I fainted and Ronny Dufford lugged me home in a taxi. I say, do let me have St. Ledger Grant do a pastel of you. Dad would love it and St. Ledger needs ten pounds as badly as any one in Cheyne Walk.” “Who’s Sillijer?” “Artist. Poor bloke who got patriotic and lost a leg in the Dardanelles mess. Serve him right and so on but he’s ghastly poor.” “You a pacifist?” “Rather!” “That’s why you like the Scandinavians? Because they stayed out?”