Edward Henry sat down on one of the beds by the hook on which hung the telephone. And he cogitated upon the characteristics of certain members of the party which he had just left. "I’m a ’virgin mind,’ am I?" he thought. "I’m a ’clean slate’? Well! ... Their notion of business is to begin by discussing the name of the theatre! And they haven’t even taken up the option! Ye gods! ’Intellectual!’ ’Muses!’ ’The Orient Pearl.’ And she’s fifty--that I swear! Not a word yet of real business--not one word! He may be a poet. I dare say he is. He’s a conceited ass. Why, even Bryany was better than that lot. Only Sachs turned Bryany out. I like Sachs. But he won’t open his mouth.... ’Capitalist!’ Well, they spoilt my appetite, and I hate champagne! ... The poet hates money.... No, he ’hates the thought of money.’ And she’s changing her mind the whole blessed time! A month ago she’d have gone over to Pilgrim, and the poet too, like a house a fire! ... Photographed indeed! The bally photographer will be here in a minute! ... They take me for a fool! ... Or don’t they know any better? ... Anyhow, I am a fool.... I must teach ’em summat!" He seized the telephone. "Hello!" he said into it. "I want you to put me on to the drawing-room of Suite No. 48, please. Who? Oh, me! I’m in the bedroom of Suite No. 48. Machin, Alderman Machin. Thanks. That’s all right." He waited. Then he heard Marrier’s Kensingtonian voice in the telephone, asking who he was. "Is that Mr. Machin’s room?" he continued, imitating with a broad farcical effect the acute Kensingtonianism of Mr. Marrier’s tones. "Is Miss Ra-ose Euclid there? Oh! She is? Well, you tell her that Sir John Pilgrim’s private secretary wishes to speak to her. Thanks. All right. _I’ll_ hold the line." A pause. Then he heard Rose’s voice in the telephone, and he resumed: "Miss Euclid? Yes. Sir John Pilgrim. I beg pardon! Banks? Oh, _Banks_! No, I’m not Banks. I suppose you mean my predecessor. He’s left. Left last week. No, I don’t know why. Sir John instructs me to ask if you and Mr. Trent could lunch with him to-morrow at wun-thirty? What? Oh! At his house. Yes. I mean flat. Flat! I said flat. You think you could?" Pause. He could hear her calling to Carlo Trent. "Thanks. No, I don’t know exactly," he went on again. "But I know the arrangement with Miss Pryde is broken off. And Sir John wants a play at once. He told me that. At once! Yes. ’The Orient Pearl.’ That was the title. At the Royal first, and then the world’s tour. Fifteen months at least, in all, so I gathered. Of course I don’t speak officially. Well, many thanks. Saoo good of you. I’ll tell Sir John it’s arranged. One-thirty to-morrow. Good-bye!" He hung up the telephone. The excited, eager, effusive tones of Rose Euclid remained in his ears. Aware of a strange phenomenon on his forehead, he touched it. He was perspiring. "I’ll teach ’em a thing or two," he muttered.