Having arrived and taken a room at a temperance hotel, he lost no time in seeking out the theatre. To a young man of gentle upbringing it required no small courage to turn down that narrow alley towards the stage-door—that alley which in his imagination was at the conclusion of each evening performance probably chock-a-block with the gilded youth of the city, each one bearing a bouquet of exotic flowers designed to anæsthetise the blossom of his heart into accepting their addresses. Fortunately he was spared the indignity of asking for her at the stage-door, for at the moment of his arrival she herself stepped out. For a moment he failed to recognise her—so little of the original Mary remained under the mask of pink powder and the screen of white fox, but the features of the little figure were the same. The “Mary!” he exclaimed savoured more of rebuke than recognition. “Why, it’s Harry!” she cried, with a genuine pleasure in her voice. But he was so shocked by the silly little changes she had made in herself that the tone of welcome was lost to his ears, and it was only with difficulty he restrained himself from saying many foolish things. “Is there anywhere we could go and have a few words together?” he gravely asked. “Yes, rather! How about the Mik?” “Mik?” “Mikado,” she replied. “It’s much better than the Royal, you know; the Royal’s always so full. Fancy your turning up! I’m real glad to see you, boy!” Henry had never been called “Boy” before, and it grated on his ears as the powder offended his eyes. All the way to the Mikado Eunice kept up a sharp rattle of dressing-room remarks, about poor dear Flo who couldn’t act a bit, but was such a dear for all that; about Sydney Lennox, who had played second leads with Fred, and was reported to have ticked off Dot before an entire West End company; and endless other showy fragments intended to impress him with the manner of her success, since the day they had parted. As a matter of fact she had another reason for talking, and that was to hide her own feelings, which had been sorely upset by a short interview she had forced on “Freddie” Manning half an hour before. Like all good stage-managers, Manning assiduously avoided persons who sought to converse with him on business subjects—but this time Eunice had caught him unawares at the end of a passage that led to a blank wall. “Mr. Manning,” she had said, “do be a dear and tell me straight out what my chances are.” Manning rubbed his small, round ended nose and screwed up his features, like a child before a dose of physic. “Dare say there’ll be a walk-on for you in the next show,” he said at last. “But I mean my chances of a part—a real part.” “Umph!” remarked the stage-manager. “What do you want to play parts for, anyway?” “But I do. Please tell me, and don’t tease.” Mr. Manning could be very straightforward when he wished.