It was on an evening in the last week of May that I asked Rosie Mardon to dine with me at the Louvre. I selected the Louvre, well knowing that from some mysterious cause all popular actresses prefer the Louvre to other restaurants, although the quality of the food there is not always impeccable. I am not in the habit of inviting the favourites of the stage to dinner, especially favourites who enjoy a salary of seventy-five pounds a week, as Rosie Mardon did and does. But in the present case I had a particular object in view. Rosie Mardon was taking the chief feminine rôle in my new light comedy, then in active rehearsal at the Alcazar Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. We had almost quarrelled over her interpretation of the big scene in the second act, which differed materially from my own idea of how the scene ought to go. Diplomacy was necessary. I prided myself on my powers as a diplomatist: I knew that if I could chat with Miss Rosie in the privacy of a table for two at a public restaurant (there is no privacy more discreet), I could convert her to my opinions on that second act. “Have you engaged a table upstairs?” was her first inquiry, as with the assistance of a stout and gorgeous official I helped her to alight from her brougham at the portico of the house. (She looked lovely, and half the street was envying me; but unfortunately Rosie’s looks have nothing to do with the tale; let me therefore dismiss them as a dangerous topic.) “No,” I said; “but I expect there’ll be plenty of room.” “Plenty of room!” she exclaimed, with a charming scorn and a glance which said: “This young man really has a great deal to learn about the art of entertaining ladies at the Louvre.” I admit that I had. “Oh, yes!” I insisted with bravado. “Plenty!” “Ask the booking-clerk,” she commanded, and with all her inimitable grace she sank like a fatigued sylph into one of the easy-chairs that furnished the entrance-hall, and drew her cloak round her shoulders. The booking-clerk, in faultless evening-dress, with a formidable silver chain encircling his neck, stood at the foot of the grand staircase, which was very grand. The booking-clerk politely but coldly informed me that he had not a table upstairs; he said that every table had been booked since a quarter to seven. “Well, I suppose we must be content with downstairs, but I much prefer the balcony,” said Rosie when I told her. And Rosie was obviously cross. My dinner was beginning ominously. I returned to the booking-clerk, who was then good enough to tell me that he had no table downstairs either. I felt rather an ass, but I never permit my asininity to go too far. I assumed an attitude of martial decision, and ordered one of the pages to get me a hansom. “We will dine at the Savoy,” I said, very loud. Every official in the neighbourhood heard me. Rosie smiled, whether at the prospect of the Savoy or at my superb indignation I know not.