Mr. Cardomay was engaged in writing in an autograph book as she entered, and he laid it aside and turned his eyes towards her. What he saw seemed to surprise him, for he contracted his brows a little. He had expected to find the same little rosy-cheeked runaway from Bognor, but, instead, here was a young lady all over white fur, white boots, white powder, long gloves and short skirts. “There’s some mistake, I think,” he said. “I asked for Miss Terry.” “I’m Eunice Terry.” “Tch-tch! dear me, you will think it very strange that I hardly know the young ladies in my own company.” “Oh, not at all,” she replied. “One knocks up against so many people on the road, doesn’t one?” He nodded gravely. Evidently the young lady was no use for the part, but, being kind-hearted, he hardly knew how to get rid of her. “I sent for you,” he said untruthfully, “to ask if you were any relation of the Terrys.” Eunice’s high hopes came down with a bump. “Not really a relation,” she answered. “Of course, we know Fred very well.” “Um!” said Eliphalet. “Well, I trust you’re happy in the company. Good afternoon.” Eunice turned to go, then, with sudden courage stayed and said: “I was hoping, Mr. Cardomay, you had got something for me in the next show. I’m simply dying to play a part—a big part.” The unsatisfied fatherly instinct in Eliphalet Cardomay came to the surface, and pointing to a chair, he said: “Sit down a minute. How old are you?” “I’m twenty.” “Have you a father or a mother?” “No. I used to live with an old aunt. She was a frightful ogre, Mr. Cardomay. Wouldn’t let me go on the stage. So silly.” “She is dead?” “Yes.” “What a pity. And you are not engaged?” “Well, only in a way. I don’t think I shall ever marry him; not, at any rate, until I’m famous. You see, he’s foolish about the stage, too. Seemed to think it would spoil me.” Eliphalet’s eyes wandered to the white boots elaborately displayed for his benefit. “Poor young man,” was his comment. “He’s a great dear, of course, and I like him very much, but I couldn’t let him stand in the way of my career, could I?” “He won’t.” “I’m so glad you agree with me.” “Real love does not stand in the way of an artistic career, it advances it.” “I’m madly keen to get on.” “What do you call getting on?” “I mean to have one’s name and photograph in all the papers, to keep a motor, and be recognised—all that sort of thing.” Eliphalet smiled ironically. “At least it was an honest answer,” he said. “The last girl to whom I put the same question replied: ‘To play Lady Macbeth better than anyone else.’” “How silly!” said Eunice. And Eliphalet rose to put an end to the interview. “Do you think you will have something for me?” she hazarded. “Advice at any time you need it, and, as a little to go on with, don’t lose track of that poor young man.”