“Eight,” said Hambledon. “We ought to get along, Carol.”

“Work, work, work,” said Carolyn, suddenly looking tragic. “Good-bye, Mr. Alleyn. Come round to my dressing-room after the show.”

“And to mine,” said Hambledon. “I want to know what you think of the piece. So long.”

“Thank you so much. Good-bye,” said Alleyn.

“Nice man,” said Carolyn when they had gone a little way.

“Very nice indeed. Carol, you’ve got to listen to me, please. I’ve loved you with shameless constancy for — how long? Five years?”

“Surely a little longer than that, darling. I fancy it’s six. It was during the run of Scissors to Grind at the Criterion. Don’t you remember—”

“Very well — six. You say you’re fond of me — love me—”

“Oughtn’t we to cross over here?” interrupted Carolyn. “Pooh said the theatre was down that street, surely. Oh, do be careful!” She gave a little scream. Hambledon, exasperated, had grasped her by the elbow and was hurrying her across a busy intersection.

“I’m coming to your dressing-room as soon as we get there,” he said angrily, “and I’m going to have it out with you.”

“It would certainly be a better spot than the footpath,” agreed Carolyn. “As my poor Pooh would say, there is a right and a wrong kind of publicity.”

“For God’s sake,” said Hambledon, between clenched teeth, “stop talking to me about your husband.”

Before going to the theatre young Courtney Broadhead called in at the Middleton and asked for Mr. Gordon Palmer. He was sent up to Mr. Palmer’s rooms where he found that young man still in bed and rather white about the gills. His cousin and mentor, Geoffrey Weston, sat in an arm-chair by the window, and Mr. Francis Liversidge lolled across the end of the bed smoking a cigarette. He, too, had dropped in to see Gordon on his way to rehearsal, it seemed.