In two seconds the feather-duster was behind a screen, and Flora, looking really very handsome--she was, as usual in the daytime, in semi-evening dress--was reading a little book covered in old vellum, and kept for the purpose of her being found reading it. She put it down and welcomed her guest charmingly. Rathbone, looking very fair and pink and rather determined, had brought with him a kind of case containing his collection of old theatre programmes, so that he gave the impression of being a diplomat of high importance with a portfolio. She helped him prettily to show her the programmes, and was pleased to see that there was something else on his mind. She gave him a cigarette and they had tea. He told her the ancient story of his writing to Cissie Loftus, and how he had never received an answer. She welcomed the anecdote as though it combined the brilliance of a jewel with the freshness of a daisy. Then he spoke in a somewhat thick voice and with that rather gruff manner that she associated with sincerity. "Miss Luscombe, I ..."--he sighed deeply. "To tell you the truth, there's something--for a long time I've wanted to ask you." He fixed on her intently his blue eyes, in which there was an ardent glare. "Really, Mr. Rathbone? What can I do for you?" "A great deal. The question is, what would you do for me?" "Oh, that depends," she said, smiling, looking down, and enjoying herself. "Not to put too fine a point upon it, Miss Luscombe----"; he stopped nervously. "Miss Luscombe sounds so formal," she murmured. "You wouldn't allow me to call you Flora, would you?" He smiled, but she thought he looked disappointed. Perhaps he was a man who needed difficulties--opposition. "Well ... I ... it depends," she said. "Look here, Flora, you're a very charming woman. I have a great admiration for you. What is more, I believe you to be a thoroughly good----" he hesitated again; was he going to say 'woman,' 'actress?'--he decided on 'sort.' "Oh!" "Now I'll reveal to you the dream of my life, which I wouldn't tell to anybody else." "I wonder if I can guess it?" she said, wishing he would hurry up. Lady Charles was coming at half-past five to get the address of that fur place Flora knew of, where you got things practically for nothing--and they were worth it, too. "I know I'm not so very young," continued the young man. "Why, you're only about thirty-four, aren't you? I call that young." "Do you--do you really? Now I was afraid I was getting rather too old to begin, as it were, a fresh life. Well now"--he came a little nearer and touched her hand, which lay on the table; it was a pretty hand, thin and bony, with pink polished nails and a garnet ring--"will you do it for me? will you help me? will you not think me foolish--too daring--too sanguine?..." "What?" "Yes. I see you've guessed. Yes. I want to go on the stage." CHAPTER XV MISS WALMER