"Why don’t you get one?" Marrier suggested. "Do you really think I could?" asked Carlo Trent, as if the possibility were shimmering far out of his reach like a rainbow. "Rather!" smiled Marrier. "I don’t mind laying a fiver that Mr. Machin’s dressing-gown came from Drook’s in Old Bond Street." But instead of saying "old" he said "ehoold." "It did," Edward Henry admitted. Mr. Marrier beamed with satisfaction. "Drook’s, you say?" murmured Carlo Trent. "Old Bond Street?" and wrote down the information on his shirt-cuff. Rose Euclid watched him write. "Yes, Carlo," said she. "But don’t you think we’d better begin to talk about the theatre? You haven’t told me yet if you got hold of Longay on the ’phone." "Of course we got hold of him," said Marrier. "He agrees with me that ’The Intellectual’ is a better name for it." Rose Euclid clapped her hands. "I’m so glad!" she cried. "Now what do you think of it as a name, Mr. Machin,--’The Intellectual Theatre?’ You see it’s most important we should settle on the name, isn’t it?" It is no exaggeration to say that Edward Henry felt a wave of cold in the small of his back, and also a sinking away of the nevertheless quite solid chair on which he sat. He had more than the typical Englishman’s sane distrust of that morbid word "Intellectual." His attitude towards it amounted to active dislike. If ever he used it, he would on no account use it alone; he would say, "Intellectual, and all that sort of thing!" with an air of pushing violently away from him everything that the phrase implied. The notion of baptising a theatre with the fearsome word horrified him. Still he had to maintain his nerve and his repute. So he drank some champagne, and smiled nonchalantly as the imperturbable duellist smiles while the pistols are being examined. "Well--" he murmured. "You see," Marrier broke in, with the smile ecstatic, almost dancing on his chair. "There’s no use in compromise. Compromise is and always has been the curse of this country. The unintellectual drahma is dead--dead. Naoobody can deny that. All the box-offices in the West are proclaiming it." "Should you call your play intellectual, Mr. Sachs?" Edward Henry inquired across the table. "I scarcely know," said Mr. Seven Sachs calmly. "I know I’ve played it myself fifteen hundred and two times, and that’s saying nothing of my three subsidiary companies on the road." "What is Mr. Sach’s play?" asked Carlo Trent fretfully. "Don’t you know, Carlo?" Rose Euclid patted him. "’Overheard.’" "Oh! I’ve never seen it." "But it was on all the hoardings!" "I never read the hoardings," said Carlo. "Is it in verse?" "No, it isn’t," Mr. Seven Sachs briefly responded. "But I’ve made over six hundred thousand dollars out of it."