hrow her out, and take it from me. She does
it on purpose."

"I can't throw her out without Mr. Chown's orders, and Mr. Chown's in
Paris."

"Then you refuse?"

A pause.

"Yes."

"Then I'm not going on again to-night, not if I know it. I'm not going
to be insulted in my own theatre."

"It's not the girl's fault. You know they haven't got room to move."

"I don't know anything about that and I don't care. All I know is that
I've finished with that squint-eyed woman, and you can choose right now
between her and me. And so that's that."

Miss Fiddle's fragile complexion had approached to within six inches of
the stage-manager's broad and shiny features, and it had little
resemblance to any of the various faces which audiences associated with
the figure of Eliza Fiddle; it was a face voluptuously distorted by the
violence of emotion. As Miss Fiddle appeared to be under the impression
that she was alone with the stage-manager, Mr. Prohack rendered justice
to that impression by softly departing. Ozzie followed. The
stage-manager also followed. "Where are you going?" they heard Eliza's
voice behind them addressing the stage-manager.

"I'm going to tell your under-study to get ready quick."

An enormous altercation uprose, and faces peeped from every door in the
corridor; but Mr. Prohack stayed not. Ozzie led him to Mr. Asprey
Chown's private room. The Terror of the departments was shaken. Ozzie
laughed gently as he shut the door.

"What will happen?" asked Mr. Prohack, affecting a gaiety he did not
feel.

"What do you think will happen?" simpered Ozzie blandly, "having due
regard to the fact that Miss Fiddle has to choose between three hundred
and fifty pounds a week and a law-suit with Chown involving heavy
damages? I must say there's nobody like Blaggs for keeping these three
hundred and fifty pound a week individuals in order. Chown would sooner
lose forty of them than lose Blaggs. And Eliza knows it. By the way,
what do you think of the show?"

"Will it succeed?"

"You should see the advance booking. There's a thousand pounds in the
house to-night. Chown will be clearing fifteen hundred a week when he's
paid off his production."

"Well, it's marvellous."

"You don't mean the show?"

"No. The profit."

"I agree," simpered Ozzie.

"I'm beginning to like this sizzling idiot," thought Mr. Prohack, as it
were regretfully. They left the imperial richness of Mr. Chown's private
room like brothers.