“Mr. Faucitt said Elsa Doland was good.”
“Oh, she's all right,” said Fillmore indifferently. “But—” His face brightened and animation crept into his voice. “But the girl you want to watch is Miss Winch. Gladys Winch. She plays the maid. She's only in the first act, and hasn't much to say, except 'Did you ring, madam?' and things like that. But it's the way she says 'em! Sally, that girl's a genius! The greatest character actress in a dozen years! You mark my words, in a darned little while you'll see her name up on Broadway in electric light. Personality? Ask me! Charm? She wrote the words and music! Looks?...”
“All right! All right! I know all about it, Fill. And will you kindly inform me how you dared to get engaged without consulting me?”
Fillmore blushed richly.
“Oh, do you know?”
“Yes. Mr. Faucitt told me.”
“Well...”
“Well?”
“Well, I'm only human,” argued Fillmore.
“I call that a very handsome admission. You've got quite modest, Fill.”
He had certainly changed for the better since their last meeting.
It was as if someone had punctured him and let out all the pomposity. If this was due, as Mr. Faucitt had suggested, to the influence of Miss Winch, Sally felt that she could not but approve of the romance.
“I'll introduce you sometime,' said Fillmore.
“I want to meet her very much.”
“I'll have to be going now. I've got to see Bunbury. I thought he might be in here.”
“Who's Bunbury?”
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