"Rather!" Mr. Marrier gaily soothed him, as he went over to the telephone. And Mr. Marrier’s bright boyish face radiated forth the assurance that nothing in all his existence had more completely filled him with sincere joy than this enterprise of procuring a photograph of the party. Even in giving the photographer’s number,--he was one of those prodigies who remember infallibly all telephone numbers,--his voice seemed to gloat upon his project. (And while Mr. Marrier, having obtained communication with the photographer, was saying gloriously into the telephone: "Yes, Wilkins’s. No. Quite private. I’ve got Miss Rose Euclid here, and Mr. Seven Sachs--" while Mr. Marrier was thus proceeding with his list of star attractions, Edward Henry was thinking: "’_Her_ new theatre,’--now! It was ’his’ a few minutes back!... "The well-known Midland capitalist, eh? Oh! Ah!") He drank again. He said to himself: "I’ve had all I can digest of this beastly balloony stuff." (He meant the champagne.) "If I finish this glass, I’m bound to have a bad night." And he finished the glass, and planked it down firmly on the table. "Well," he remarked aloud cheerfully, "if we’re to be photographed, I suppose we shall want a bit more light on the subject." Joseph sprang to the switches. "Please!" Carlo Trent raised a protesting hand. The switches were not turned. In the beautiful dimness the greatest tragic actress in the world and the greatest dramatic poet in the world gazed at each other, seeking and finding solace in mutual esteem. "I suppose it wouldn’t do to call it the Euclid Theater?" Rose questioned casually, without moving her eyes. "Splendid!" cried Mr. Marrier from the telephone. "It all depends whether there are enough mathematical students in London to fill the theater for a run," said Edward Henry. "Oh! D’you think so?" murmured Rose, surprised and vaguely puzzled. At that instant Edward Henry might have rushed from the room and taken the night mail back to the Five Towns, and never any more have ventured into the perils of London, if Carlo Trent had not turned his head and signified by a curt reluctant laugh that he saw the joke. For Edward Henry could no longer depend on Mr. Seven Sachs. Mr. Seven Sachs had to take the greatest pains to keep the muscles of his face in strict order. The slightest laxity with them--and he would have been involved in another and more serious suffocation. "No," said Carlo Trent, "’The Muses’ Theatre’ is the only possible title. There is money in the poetical drama." He looked hard at Edward Henry, as though to stare down the memory of the failure of Nashe’s verse. "I don’t want money. I hate the thought of money. But money is the only proof of democratic appreciation, and that is what I need, and what every artist needs.... Don’t you think there’s money in the poetical drama, Mr. Sachs?" "Not in America," said Mr. Sachs. "London is a queer place."