“What a dear she is!” he remarked to Polly. He had the habit of talking about a person in front of that person when he wished to be complimentary or to find fault. “A flapper in a thousand,” putting on gold _pince-nez_ with the foreign straight-across nose-piece which Thurley had never seen. “By Jove, is Bliss sure she’s a singer? I could make an actress out of that girl.” “You’ve not heard her sing,” Polly capered about. “When she sings, I am inspired to tear up all the opera scores I’ve fancied were any good and begin again. Because Thurley has promised me to sing the title rôle in my opera—now haven’t you?” Polly’s little face was distressingly in earnest. Sam shook his head and began talking to Thurley about Polly. “She is irrepressible, isn’t she? Fancies she can out-Wagner Wagner—when she is just bound to end up by writing songs for a ballad singer—one dressed in sheer muslin with velvet wrist bows—possessing a thin, carefully tutored soprano that will always trill certain words.” Polly picked up a cushion and unceremoniously pitched it towards him. It fell between Thurley and Sam and Sam knelt gracefully upon it, adding, “Would that I could have one of these when I’m trying to look romantic in this position before a matinée of school girls—ugh, the old bones do make a howl if I use them carelessly! Thurley, don’t mind us! You see I’m one of those old-young boys that just stay old-young to the finish—always wearing a gardenia in their buttonhole and their hat tilted rakishly over the left eye. Some day I’ll just go to sleep and I’ll be toted to the Little Church Around the Corner with a last gardenia in my buttonhole and I hope some friend of mine will protest against that awful firebell embellished funeral march. At least I’m entitled to have the Faust waltz played—I always have my greatest luck with stage proposals when that is softly heard as coming from the supposed supper room of a hunt ball—and a bill poster without saying, ‘The End of an Old Beau!’ After it is all over, I hope they’ll say, ‘Well, Sam never grew old while he was among us—let’s hope he won’t start the habit now wherever he’s blown off to!’” He jumped up as he finished, holding out his hand, and Thurley took it shyly. “Don’t mind our nonsense—she’s quite timid, isn’t she? Reminds me of the way my leading ladies act when on the stage and when off they rage like a stable boy if some one happens to cross their notions.” He studied her a moment longer and remarked, “She is pretty—I can’t find a single flaw.” Thurley was pretty that afternoon; perhaps the ooze had lent her the vivid coloring or it was her bright red coat with the great silver buttons and the ermine tam slanting down and showing her dark hair. “I’m stupid,” she began, “because I’ve been working so hard.”