“I believe,” she said, “you are looking for a dresser.”

As he had stopped dead in the lighted doorway she couldn’t see the man clearly but his silhouette was stocky and trim.

He said with what seemed to be a mixture of irritation and relief: “Good Lord, how long have you been here?”

“Not long. You were on the telephone. I didn’t like to interrupt.”

“Interrupt!” he ejaculated as if she talked nonsense. He looked at his watch, groaned, and said rapidly: “You’ve come about this job? From Mrs. Greenacres, aren’t you?”

She wondered who Mrs. Greenacres could be? An employment agent? She hunted desperately for the right phrase, the authentic language.

“I understood you required a dresser and I would be pleased to apply.” Should she have added “sir”?

“It’s for Miss Helena Hamilton,” he said rapidly. “Her own dresser who’s been with her for years — for a long time — has been taken ill. I explained to Mrs. Greenacres. Photograph call for nine in the morning and first dress rehearsal to-morrow night. We open on Thursday. The dressing’s heavy. Two quick changes and so on. I suppose you’ve got references?”

Her mouth was dry. She said: “I haven’t brought—” and was saved by the telephone bell. He plunged back into the office and she heard him shout “Vulcan!” as he picked up the receiver. “Grantley, here,” he said. “Oh, hullo, darling. Look, I’m desperately sorry, but I’ve been held up or I’d have rung you before. For God’s sake apologize for me. Try and keep them going till I get there. I know, I know. Not a smell of one until—” The voice became suddenly muffled: she caught isolated words. “I think so… yes, I’ll ask… yes… Right. ’Bye, darling.”

He darted out, now wearing a hat and struggling into a raincoat. “Look,” he said, “Miss—”

“Tarne.”

“Miss Tarne. Can you start right away? Miss Hamilton’s things are in her dressing-room.