It might be imagined that Henry embraced the opportunity to make her his wife then and there, but Auntie had left, by way of a legacy, a certain amount of the one-time detested common-sense. Reviewing his financial position by the clear light of before-breakfast sunshine, he was forced to admit that a salary that barely sufficed to satisfy his own needs would inevitably prove insufficient for two. He conveyed this weighty decision to the ears of his adored one, who, deprived of the same clarity of vision that had been given to him, accepted it as a token of waning affection. “If you can’t keep me,” she sobbed, “then I’ll keep both of us.” Sorely perplexed, he asked her what she meant. “I shall go on the stage and earn a huge salary, and then perhaps you’ll be sorry.” “Don’t talk like that, Mary,” he begged. “I always meant to go when Auntie died, as it makes no difference, anyhow, and now I shall.” These remarks being somewhat involved, Henry Churchill scarcely knew how to answer, so he said the worst thing possible. “I don’t see how you can go on the stage without knowing anything about acting.” “I do know something about it, and when you see me driving about in my carriage I sha’n’t take any notice of you, and that’ll pay you out!” Henry pondered for a moment before replying: “Surely you have more respect for your poor aunt’s memory than to go talking about carriages, like that?” But Mary only pouted, and never said another word during the whole walk home. Next morning Miss Mary Kent’s place at the estate agent’s was unoccupied, and when Henry, after an agonising three hours, rushed round to her abode, he found a letter awaiting him, the gist of which was she had gone to make her fortune on the stage, and though she would always love him she must give rein to her artistic abilities before the consummation of their happiness could be achieved. Beginner’s luck is no fable, and it was certainly exampled when Mary Kent presented herself at the stage-door of the Theatre Royal, Brighton, at the psychological moment Eliphalet Cardomay decided that another lady-guest was required for the reception-scene at the Ambassador’s. The Brighton _Herald_ had commented upon the quality and lack of guests in this important function, and Eliphalet, viewing the scene from the wings, was bound to confess there was justice in their observations. It is not pleasant for an actor of his standing to read in the “What People are Saying” column that “The Ambassador at the Royal this week hasn’t many friends, and what he has hardly seem worth knowing.”