ff from
a passionate devotion, through various diminishing tints of regard for
her, into a sort of pale sunset glow of affection. His principal reason
for proposing was that it seemed to him to be in the natural order of
events. Her air towards him had become distinctly proprietorial. She now
called him "Roly-poly" in public--a proceeding which left him with mixed
feelings. Also, she had taken to ordering him about, which, as everybody
knows, is an unmistakable sign of affection among ladies of the
theatrical profession. Finally, in his chivalrous way, Roland had
begun to feel a little apprehensive lest he might be compromising Miss
Verepoint. Everybody knew that he was putting up the money for the
revue in which she was to appear; they were constantly seen together at
restaurants; people looked arch when they spoke to him about her. He had
to ask himself: was he behaving like a perfect gentleman? The answer was
in the negative. He took a cab to her flat and proposed before he could
repent of his decision.

She accepted him. He was not certain for a moment whether he was glad
or sorry. "But I don't want to get married," she went on, "until I have
justified my choice of a profession. You will have to wait until I have
made a success in this revue."

Roland was shocked to find himself hugely relieved at this concession.

The revue took shape. There did apparently exist a handful of artistes
to whom Miss Verepoint had no objection, and these--a scrubby but
confident lot--were promptly engaged. Sallow Americans sprang from
nowhere with songs, dances, and ideas for effects. Tousled-haired scenic
artists wandered in with model scenes under their arms. A great cloud of
chorus-ladies settled upon the theater like flies. Even Bromham Rhodes
and R. P. de Parys--those human pythons--showed signs of activity. They
cornered Roland one day near Swan and Edgar's, steered him into the
Piccadilly Grill-room and, over a hearty lunch, read him extracts from
a brown-paper-covered manuscript which, they informed him, was the first
act.

It looked a battered sort of manuscript and, indeed, it had every right
to be. Under various titles and at various times, Bromham Rhodes' and R.
P. de Parys' first act had been refused by practically every responsible
manager in London. As "Oh! What a Life!" it had failed to satisfy the
directors of the Empire. Re-christened "Wow-Wow!" it had been rejected
by the Alhambra. The Hippodrome had refused to c