"I am not quite sure of his name," replied Miss Lyle, with characteristic candour; "but I think he’s in the Yeomanry. His Christian name’s Leonard. I met him with two other fellows at a party, and I got all their surnames mixed up—I always do—and I can never remember which of the three is his." "You will find out before you marry him?" suggested Marjorie respectfully. "Oh, rather! But there’s plenty of time for that. Besides, he’s going out soon, and then it won’t matter." "It won’t _matter_?" "No. We are not so potty about one another as all that. I could see the lad wanted to be engaged—after all, poor things, they can’t afford to wait, these days—so I let him. He’s nice, and clean, and it looks well to be called for after rehearsal. I shall miss him awfully when he goes. It’s rotten to be by yourself in this world—isn’t it?" A pair of pathetic eyes were upturned to Marjorie’s. Next moment Marjorie’s arm was round the waif’s shoulders. "Liss, you shall come and live with me!" she said impulsively. "Righto!" replied Liss. "I was dying to be asked, but it seemed too wonderful to be possible. I shall have to sponge on you for a bit, though. I haven’t a bean until the show opens." "That’s all right," said Marjorie. "Now, where shall we have our dug-out?" asked Liss, becoming terribly busy. The pair spent a rapturous evening building castles in Kensington. *CHAPTER VIII* *CHORUS* *I* Finally they found an eyrie—a flat, somewhere in the sky at the back of Victoria Street, consisting of a big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room, a gas stove, and a surprisingly modern bath. They bought furniture at unpretentious establishments in Tottenham Court Road, laying their own carpets and hanging their own curtains. (The latter were the only really essential articles of domestic furniture in those days of aerial visitation.) Marjorie hung up a few reprints and photographs; Liss contributed a portrait of her nebulous and anonymous fiancé, together with seventeen picture post cards of stage celebrities; and the ideal home was opened.