“That’s more than Templeton ever did!” exclaimed Kitty Legaye, with open spite. Dukane smiled once more. “Miss Templeton,” he said, “is rather too—er—sophisticated to play _Lucille_. She is growing out of those very girlish leading parts.” “Why don’t you say,” interposed Kitty sharply, “that she’s too old? She is—and, what’s more, she looks it!” “She’s a ripping handsome woman, all the same,” declared Alan Mortimer, scowling into his half-emptied glass. Kitty bit her lip. “Of course _you_ would be sorry to see her go!” she began. “Who said I was sorry?” demanded the actor rather rudely. “I am not; I’m glad. She was getting to be a nuisance——” He checked himself, a glimmer of something like shame saving him in time. He turned to Sybil Merivale, and there was a warm light in his black eyes as he added: “I’m growing more glad every minute.” Sybil was uncomfortable. She hated this man and feared him; she hated the tone of the talk, the atmosphere of the table. She had a violent instinct of repugnance when she thought of joining the company. And yet—and yet a leading part, and on Broadway, and under Dukane! She could not, she dared not lose so wonderful a chance. Her big blue eyes were eager and troubled both at once. Dukane watched the play of expression in her sensitive face. “Mobile mouth—quick emotions—excellent eyes.” He went over these assets mentally. Aloud he said, in the nice, impersonally friendly tone with which he won people whenever he had the fancy: “You need only read the part, you know, Miss Merivale. You’re not committed to anything.” Sybil looked at him gratefully; he seemed to read her thoughts. All at once, with a surge back of her usual gay courage, she cried, laughing: “Committed! I only wish I were—or, rather, that _you_ were, Mr. Dukane!” “What’s that?” exclaimed Mortimer, a little thickly. “’Course he’s committed! You’re under contract, Miss—Miss M-Merivale. Word as good as his bond—eh, Dukane?” He was deeply flushed and his eyes glittered. In his excitement Sybil found him detestable. Fancy having to play opposite that! “Suppose you eat something,” suggested Dukane, pushing a plate with a piece of cold beef on it in his direction. “Oh, yes, you do want it; you’ve had a hard morning. Eat it, there’s a good fellow.” “A-all right,” muttered Mortimer, attacking the beef somewhat unsteadily. “Must keep up m’ strength, I s’pose.” A waiter leaned down to him and murmured something in French. “Eh?” said Mortimer. “Come again, George. Try Spanish; I know the greaser lingo a bit.” The waiter spoke again in halting English. The others could hardly help hearing part of what he said. It concerned a “lady in mauve—table by the window—just a minute, monsieur.”