Sam settled himself on a sofa to take in the surroundings. Polly was watching something out of the window so Thurley took opportunity to remove her wraps and come to sit sedately beside the famous old man. “But I’m not really timid,” she supplemented naïvely, at which he turned about crying bravo, and threatening Hobart with losing his prima donna in order that she become Sam Sparling’s leading lady. “She’s taking inventory of my wrinkles, Polly,” he complained, “and my white hair and the wretched old hump o’ years that has fastened itself on my back. Bring her to the Christmas matinée and let her see me in lavender-striped trousers and cutaway coat, the misunderstood young man turned from his father’s mansion, returning in the last act to his steam yacht and his second best Rolls Royce—let her have a go at me and come behind to have tea afterwards,” he put his hand down and covered Thurley’s—a thin, tired hand with prominent, blue veins and a handsome ring of sapphires on the little finger. “Haven’t you a good sort of leading woman?” asked Polly. “No, the only real bond between us is a mutual love of Roquefort salad dressing,” he sighed. “Her idea of art is to be undressed quite halfway down her back and to fall on my neck in limp giggles.” “Why do you have her then?” Thurley asked seriously. “Youth, my child—she is a lovely, young thing, pink and white, straight, slim, very good to gaze upon—and she knows it. She can wear a wrap consisting of four flounces of purple chiffon and a strip of rose satin and make the audience stare at her impudent, untalented little self while they _listen_ to my lines! The combination lets my wrinkles, humped back and cantankerous joints slip by unheeded. That is a penalty we pay for growing old. Never mind, Thurley, you’ve years in which to revel in having both talent and youth—divine combination!” Sam’s bright eyes grew moody, he was remembering, as Thurley rightly guessed, the wonderful, golden years in London when he was Romeo in appearance as in voice and passion, when he was dark eyed, melancholy young Hamlet and the critics gently insinuated that as King Lear he was a trifle youngish although his makeup was superb! Those were the years when people loved his Shakespeare because his youth illumined it and he passed by with proper scorn the smart comedies requiring a morning garden backdrop, a duel in the library and leading ladies who were possessed of more dimples than brains. “Why don’t you play old rôles?” Thurley demanded innocently, Polly smothering a giggle. “She doesn’t appreciate my romantic little heart and notions, does she? Let her see me a swashbuckling hero in hip boots and a green plumed bonnet while my black charger is led across the stage by bribes of sugar—then she’ll understand.” “No, she can’t understand, Sam dear, until she has reached the matronly age and still wants to do Juliet and Senta and managers try to show her the error of her ways—and figure!”