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A Damsel in Distress

Page 13

"That's good."

"The Morning Leader give it a fine write-up. How was the rest of

the papers?"

"Splendid, all of them. I haven't seen the evening papers yet. I

came out to get them."

Mac looked down the street.

"There'll be a rehearsal this afternoon, I suppose, sir? Here's

Miss Dore coming along."

George followed his glance. A tall girl in a tailor-made suit of

blue was coming towards them. Even at a distance one caught the

genial personality of the new arrival. It seemed to go before her

like a heartening breeze. She picked her way carefully through the

children crawling on the side walk. She stopped for a moment and

said something to one of them. The child grinned. Even the

proprietor of the grocery store appeared to brighten up at the

sight of her, as at the sight of some old friend.

"How's business, Bill?" she called to him as she passed the spot

where he stood brooding on the mortality of tomatoes. And, though

he replied "Rotten", a faint, grim smile did nevertheless flicker

across his tragic mask.

Billie Dore, who was one of the chorus of George Bevan's musical

comedy, had an attractive face, a mouth that laughed readily,

rather bright golden hair (which, she was fond of insisting with

perfect truth, was genuine though appearances were against it), and

steady blue eyes. The latter were frequently employed by her in

quelling admirers who were encouraged by the former to become too

ardent. Billie's views on the opposite sex who forgot themselves

were as rigid as those of Lord Marshmoreton concerning thrips. She

liked men, and she would signify this liking in a practical manner

by lunching and dining with them, but she was entirely

self-supporting, and when men overlooked that fact she reminded

them of it in no uncertain voice; for she was a girl of ready speech

and direct.

"'Morning, George. 'Morning, Mac. Any mail?"

"I'll see, miss."

"How did your better four-fifths like the show, Mac?"

"I was just telling Mr. Bevan, miss, that the missus said she

'adn't seen a livelier show for a long time."

"Fine. I knew I'd be a hit. Well, George, how's the boy this bright

afternoon?"

"Limp and pessimistic."

"That comes of sitting up till four in the morning with festive

hams."

"You were up as late as I was, and you look like Little Eva after a

night of sweet, childish slumber."

"Yes, but I drank ginger ale, and didn't smoke eighteen cigars. And

yet, I don't know. I think I must be getting old, George. All-night

parties seem to have lost their charm. I was ready to quit at one

o'clock, but it didn't seem matey. I think I'll marry a farmer and

settle down."

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