LITMIR.BIZ

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      Splendid. Been trying to get on to you all day. I’ve called twice at your club and at St. James’s Place.

      Farncombe.

      Sorry you’ve had so much trouble.

      Roper.

      Dropping on to the settee in front of the writing-table and wiping his brow. There’ll be the Baron, Sam de Castro, Bertie Fulkerson, Stew Heneage, Jerry Grimwood, Dwarf Kennedy, Colonel and Mrs. Stidulph—Dolly Ensor that was—and ourselves, besides Cooling and Vincent Bland and the pick o’ the Company. Catani does the food and drink. I don’t believe I’ve forgotten a single thing. With a change of tone, pointing to the arm-chair in the middle of the room. Sit down a minute. Farncombe sits and Roper edges nearer to him. Are you going to wait to see Lily this afternoon?

      Farncombe.

      I—I should like to.

      Roper.

      Because if Jeyes should happen to drop in while you’re here——

      Farncombe.

      Captain Jeyes?

      Roper.

      Nicko Jeyes—or if you knock up against him to-night at the theatre—mum about this.

      Farncombe.

      About the supper?

      Roper.

      Nodding. Um. We don’t want Nicko Jeyes; we simply don’t want him. And if he heard that you and some of the boys are coming, he might wonder why he isn’t included.

      Farncombe.

      He strikes me as being rather a surly, ill-conditioned person.

      Roper.

      A regular loafer.

      Farncombe.

      He appears to live at Catani’s. I never go there without meeting him.

      Roper.

      Exactly. Catani’s and a top, back bedroom in Jermyn Street, and hanging about the Pandora; that’s Nicko Jeyes’s life.

      Farncombe.

      He’s an old friend of Mrs. Upjohn’s and Miss Parradell’s too, isn’t he?

      Roper.

      Evasively. Known ’em some time. That’s it; Lily’s so faithful to her old friends.

      Farncombe.

      Smiling. You oughtn’t to complain of that.

      Roper.

      Oh, but I’m a real friend. I’ve always been a patron of the musical drama—it’s my fad; and I’ve kept an eye on Lily from the moment she sprang into prominence—singing “Mind the paint! Mind the paint!” —looked after her like a father. Uncle Lal she calls me. Reassuringly. I’m a married man, you know; Farncombe nods but the wife has plenty to occupy her with the kids and she leaves the drama to me. She prefers Bexhill. Leaning forward and speaking with great earnestness. Farncombe, what a charming creature!

      Farncombe.

      Innocently. Mrs. Roper?

      Roper.

      No, no, no; Lily. Hastily. Oh, and so’s my missus, for that matter, when she chooses. But Lily Upjohn——!

      Farncombe.

      In a low voice. Beautiful; perfectly beautiful.

      Roper.

      Yes, and as good as she’s beautiful; you take it from me. With a wave of the hand. Well, if you see Jeyes, you won’t——?

      Farncombe.

      Not a word.

      Roper.

      Rising and walking away to the left. I’ve warned the others. Returning to Farncombe who has also risen. By-the-bye, if Lily should mention the supper in the course of conversation, remember, she’s not in the conspiracy.

      Farncombe.

      Conspiracy?

      Roper.

      To shunt Nicko. We’re letting her think there are to be no outsiders.

      Farncombe.

      Becoming slightly puzzled by Roper’s manner. Why, would she very much like Captain Jeyes to be asked?

      Roper.

      Rather impatiently. Haven’t I told you, once you’re a friend of Lil’s——! Looking towards the door. Is this Ma? Mrs. Upjohn enters. Hul-lo, Ma!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      A podgy little, gaily dressed woman of five-and-fifty with a stupid, good-humoured face. ’Ullo, Uncle!

      Roper.

      Lord Farncombe——

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Advancing and shaking hands with Farncombe. Glad to see you ’ere again. You ’ave been before, ’aven’t you?

      Farncombe.

      Last week.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Of course; you came with Mr. Bertie Fulkerson. But somebody or other’s always poppin’ in. Pleasantly. Lil sees too many, I say. It’s tirin’ for ’er. Won’t you set?

      Roper.

      Lord Farncombe’s brought Lily some flowers, Ma. To Farncombe. Where are they?

      Farncombe.

      Who, after waiting for Mrs. Upjohn to settle herself upon the settee in front of the writing-table, sits in the chair at the end of the settee—pointing to a large basket of flowers. On the piano.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Barely glancing at the flowers. ’Ow kind of ’im! Sech a waste o’ money too! They do go off so quick.

      Roper.

      Reading the cards attached to the various floral gifts. Where is Lil?

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      She’s settin’ to a risin’ young artist in Fitzroy Street—Claude Morgan. She won’t be ’ome till past five. So tirin’ for ’er.

      Roper.

      Never heard of Morgan.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      No, nor anybody else. That’s what I tell ’er. Why waste your time givin’ settin’s to a risin’ young artist when the big men ’ud go down on their ’ands and knees to do you? But that’s Lil all over. She’s the best-natured girl in the world, and so she gets imposed on all round.

      Farncombe.

      Gallantly. I prophesy that Mr. Morgan’s picture of Miss Parradell won’t have dried before he’s quite famous.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Turning a pair of dull eyes full upon him. ’Ow do you mean?

      Farncombe.

      Disconcerted. Er—I mean—

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Why won’t it ’ave dried?

      Farncombe.

      I mean he will have become celebrated before it has dried.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      ’Is pictures never do dry, you mean?

      Roper.

      No, no, Ma!

      Mrs.

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