“Acting’s like everything else,” he said. “It’s got to be learned. No one’s going to give you a part unless you give something in return.” It was a perfectly innocent speech, but, thanks to the vapourings of Flora, Eunice Terry read its meaning all wrong. “And that’s the only way to get on?” she asked nervously. “Sure!” responded Freddie. “You don’t get anything for nothing in this life.” Then very dexterously he slipped past her down the passage. Henry listened to her chatter with growing displeasure, but it was not until they had seated themselves at a table in that Japanese-fanny, coffee-smelling restaurant known as the “Mik” that he really spoke his mind. “Now, look here, Mary,” he said. “I want to talk to you very straight. Mr. Robins has offered me the managership at the Lancingdon branch, with the salary of £250 a year.” “Oh, I am glad!” said Eunice Terry, laying a white-gloved hand on his sleeve. “That’s fine!” “The question is whether you will throw up this business and marry me.” For a moment she made no answer. Awhile she turned over in her mind the words of Flora and Freddie Manning. Here was this big, honest young man, who really did love her, and there was that remote phantom of possible success, with its barrier of the price to be paid. It would be very nice to set up house with Harry with two-fifty a year, for after all the thirty shillings a week she earned didn’t go far, and really and truly there was nothing very sensational or exciting in her present life. When she lifted her head she was smiling very prettily, and it was on her lips to say “Yes,” when some demon, possibly the ghost of Auntie, inspired Henry Churchill to say: “Of course, if you consent, there must be an end to all this making-up business.” “Oh!” gasped Eunice. “How dare you speak to me like that!” “It’s better we should understand each other. I dare say all this is very suitable to your present mode of life, but it wouldn’t do in Lancingdon.” “You beast!” she said. “If you think I’d marry you and be a rotten little estate agent’s wife, you’re wrong. You talk about the stage like that, and know nothing about it. I’d be a pretty sort of fool if I gave up the stage for you!” “Is this the little Mary I used to know?” inquired Henry Churchill, employing an old formula. “No, it isn’t. I’ve grown up a lot.” “Grown into bad ways,” said Henry Churchill, getting deeper into trouble. “Come, come, Mary, let us forget this unhappy chapter of your life and begin again with a clean sheet.” “I’ve got a clean sheet.” She stamped her foot. “How dare you talk to me as if I was a wicked woman!” “I am trying to prevent such a thing.” “Funny way of doing it. If anything does happen to me, it’ll be your fault. I hope—I hope I go thoroughly to the bad—just to pay you out.” “I forbid you to say such things.” “You forbid! You have no control over me. I lead my life in my own way—with my art.”