"That'll interest our readers very much," said the young man. "Yes, that's the personal note which always appeals to our readers." He sucked his pencil with relish. "And who is your favorite actress?" "In England or abroad?" "Oh, in England," the young man hurriedly explained; probably he was jibbing at the prospect of having to write a foreign name. "In England, Ellen Terry, decidedly," Dorothy replied. "Quite"; the young man sighed with relief. "Perhaps you would care to give me a photograph of yourself," he suggested. "With pleasure," she said, taking from the mantelpiece one that she had sent her mother about a month ago. "Of course," the interviewer hemmed, nervously, "that will be twelve and sixpence for the cost of reproduction." "Twelve and six?" repeated Dorothy. "The block will cost twelve and sixpence, that is to say." "Twelve and six?" she repeated once more. But she gave him the money; controlling her annoyance at the idea that this young man might be making a profit out of her innocence, she conducted him cheerfully to the door and presented him with a tulip from one of Dolly's flower-pots. "You're fond of gardening?" he asked, with half-open note-book. "I adore flowers," said Dorothy. "Good-by." To her mother she explained the sad necessity she had been under of having to give away her favorite photograph. "But, mother, I'll write for another one," she promised. "Oh, Norah dear, I hope you will," said Mrs. Caffyn, much distressed. "Only, as they're rather expensive, you won't mind giving me a guinea, will you?" Dorothy murmured, with a frown for the old "Norah." "No, darling Norah--darling child, I mean, of course not. I'd no idea you were spending your salary like that," said Mrs. Caffyn, searching in her purse for the money. That evening, during the first act a note was sent round to Dorothy from Wilfred Curlew to say that he had been to see her every night this week, and that he had persuaded a friend of his to give her some publicity in a magazine with which he was connected. "At a cost of twelve and six," Dorothy scoffed to herself. She did not send a word of thanks to Wilfred, and being unable from the stage to perceive his presence anywhere in the theater, she supposed that, having been there every night this week, he must by now have reached the gallery. When the interview appeared the other girls were very jealous, and all of them vowed that they had never heard of _The Boudoir_. "With a blush Miss Lonsdale handed our interviewer an exquisite bunch of flowers culled by the beautiful young actress from her garden, a 'thing of beauty' in the dreary desert of London streets," read out one of the girls. "Good God, have mercy on us!" exclaimed Clarice Beauchamp, holding a hairpin dipped in eye-black over the gas. "It's a wonder the editor hasn't written before now to ask if he can't keep you."