Part 11 (1/2)

”But breakfast,” the Honourable Jimmy put in,--”a man ought to be dashed careful where he breakfasts. A man is known by his breakfast companions, what?”

”Young fellow,” Wingate asked, ”where is Sarah?”

”Have no fear,” was the blissful reply. ”Sarah is coming to the supper.

She's filling her old 'bus up with peaches from the Gaiety. Not being allowed to sit inside with any of them, I was sent on ahead.”

”You dog!” Maurice White exclaimed.

”Dog yourself,” was the prompt retort. ”Opportunity is a fine thing.

Sometimes I have a gruesome fear that Sarah does not altogether trust me.”

Kendrick, who had been straightening his tie before the gla.s.s, now swung around.

”This way to the lift, boys,” he said. ”Time we put in an appearance.”

The reception room of the Arcadian suite was already fairly well crowded.

Wingate shook hands with his host, a cheery, theatrical-loving soul, and was presented to many other people. Where he was not introduced he found a pleasing absence of formality, which facilitated conversation and rapidly widened his circle of acquaintances. Kendrick came over and slapped him on the back.

”Wingate, my lad,” he exclaimed, ”you're going some! You're the bright boy of the party. Whom are you taking into supper?”

”Me!” said a rather shrill but not unmusical voice from Wingate's side.

”Introduce us, please, Mr. Kendrick. We have been making furtive conversation for the last five minutes.”

”It is a great occasion,” Kendrick declared. ”I present Mr. John Wingate, America's greatest financier, most successful soldier, and absolutely inevitable President, to Miss Flossie Lane, England's greatest musical comedy artist.”

Miss Lane grabbed Wingate's arm.

”Let's go in to supper,” she suggested. ”All the best places will be taken if we don't hurry.”

”One word,” Kendrick begged, relapsing for a moment into his ordinary manner as he touched Wingate on the shoulder. ”Dredlinton is here, rather drunk and very quarrelsome. I heard him telling some one about having found you dining alone with his wife to-night. Phipps was listening. Look at him, as black as a thundercloud! Keep your head if Dredlinton gets troublesome.”

Wingate nodded and was promptly led away. They found places about half-way down the great horseshoe table, laden with flowers and every sort of cold delicacy. There were champagne bottles at every other place, a small crowd of waiters, eager to justify their existence,--a rollicking, Bohemian crowd, the _jeunesse doree_ of London, and all the talent and beauty of the musical comedy stage. It was a side of life with which Wingate was somewhat unfamiliar. Nevertheless, his feet that night were resting upon the clouds. Any form of life was sweet to him. The new joy in his heart warmed his pulses, lightened his tongue, unlocked a new geniality. He was disposed to talk with everybody. The young lady by his side, however, had other views.

”Do you like our show, Mr. Wingate?” she asked. ”Or perhaps you don't go to musical comedies? I am in 'Lady Diana,' you know.”

”One of the very first things I am going to see,” Wingate replied, ”but as a matter of fact, I only arrived from America a few days ago. I hear that you are a great success.”

It took the young lady very nearly a quarter of an hour to explain how greatly the play might be improved and strengthened by the allotment to her of a few more songs and another dance, and she also recounted the argument she had had with the stage manager as to her absence from the stage during the greater part of Act Two.

”I am not vain,” she concluded, with engaging frankness, ”but on the other hand I am not foolish, and I know quite well that many people--a great part of the audience, in fact--come because they see my name upon the boards, and I have numberless complaints because I am only on for such a short time in what should be the most important act of the play. I tell them it's nothing to do with me, but as long as my name is displayed outside the theatre and I know how they feel about it, I feel a certain responsibility. Now you are a very clever man, and a man of the world, Mr. Wingate. What do you think about it?”

”I think that you are quite right,” he declared, with satisfactory emphasis.

”You don't know Mr. Maken, our manager, I suppose?” she enquired.

Wingate shook his head.

”As a matter of fact,” he confessed, ”I know very few theatrical people.”