"How about when you lose?"

"I don't tell 'er," said Mac simply.

"You seem to understand the art of being happy, Mac."

"It ain't an art, sir. It's just gettin' 'old of the right little

woman, and 'aving a nice little 'ome of your own to go back to at

night."

"Mac," said Billie admiringly, "you talk like a Tin Pan Alley song

hit, except that you've left out the scent of honeysuckle and Old

Mister Moon climbing up over the trees. Well, you're quite right.

I'm all for the simple and domestic myself. If I could find the

right man, and he didn't see me coming and duck, I'd become one of

the Mendelssohn's March Daughters right away. Are you going,

George? There's a rehearsal at two-thirty for cuts."

"I want to get the evening papers and send off a cable or two. See

you later."

"We shall meet at Philippi."

Mac eyed George's retreating back till he had turned the corner.

"A nice pleasant gentleman, Mr. Bevan," he said. "Too bad 'e's got

the pip the way 'e 'as, just after 'avin' a big success like this

'ere. Comes of bein' a artist, I suppose."

Miss Dore dived into her vanity case and produced a puff with which

she proceeded to powder her nose.

"All composers are nuts, Mac. I was in a show once where the

manager was panning the composer because there wasn't a number in

the score that had a tune to it. The poor geek admitted they

weren't very tuney, but said the thing about his music was that it

had such a wonderful aroma. They all get that way. The jazz seems

to go to their heads. George is all right, though, and don't let

anyone tell you different."

"Have you know him long, miss?"

"About five years. I was a stenographer in the house that published

his songs when I first met him. And there's another thing you've

got to hand it to George for. He hasn't let success give him a

swelled head. The money that boy makes is sinful, Mac. He wears

thousand dollar bills next to his skin winter and summer. But he's

just the same as he was when I first knew him, when he was just

hanging around Broadway, looking out for a chance to be allowed to

slip a couple of interpolated numbers into any old show that came

along. Yes. Put it in your diary, Mac, and write it on your cuff,

George Bevan's all right. He's an ace."

Unconscious of these eulogies, which, coming from one whose

judgment he respected, might have cheered him up, George wandered

down Shaftesbury Avenue feeling more depressed than ever. The sun

had gone in for the time being, and the east wind was frolicking

round him like a playful puppy, patting him with a cold paw,

nuzzling his ankles, bounding away and bounding back again, and

behaving generally as east winds do when they discover a victim who

has come out without his spring overcoat. It was plain to George

now that the sun and the wind were a couple of confidence

tricksters working together as a team. The sun had disarmed him

with specious promises and an air of cheery goodfellowship, and had

delivered him into the hands of the wind, which was now going

through him with the swift thoroughness of the professional hold-up

artist. He quickened his steps, and began to wonder if he was so

sunk in senile decay as to have acquired a liver.




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