been so wholly admirable. Old Gerry had one of those faces in which any alteration, even the comparatively limited one which a roll would be capable of producing, was bound to be for the better. He smiled a sickly smile and said that it didn't matter.
The charming creature who sat on his assailant's left, however, took a more serious view of the situation.
“Sidney, you make me tired,” she said severely. “If I had thought you didn't know how to act like a gentleman I wouldn't have come here with you. Go away somewhere and throw bread at yourself, and ask Mr. Bleke to come and sit by me. I want to talk to him.”
That was Roland's first introduction to Miss Billy Verepoint.
“I've been wanting to have a chat with you all the evening, Mr. Bleke,” she said, as Roland blushingly sank into the empty chair. “I've heard such a lot about you.”
What Miss Verepoint had heard about Roland was that he had two hundred thousand pounds and apparently did not know what to do with it.
“In fact, if I hadn't been told that you would be here, I shouldn't have come to this party. Can't stand these gatherings of nuts in May as a general rule. They bore me stiff.”
Roland hastily revised his first estimate of the theatrical profession. Shallow, empty-headed creatures some of them might be, no doubt, but there were exceptions. Here was a girl of real discernment—a thoughtful student of character—a girl who understood that a man might sit at a supper-party without uttering a word and might still be a man of parts.
“I'm afraid you'll think me very outspoken—but that's me all over. All my friends say, 'Billy Verepoint's a funny girl: if she likes any one she just tells them so straight out; and if she doesn't like any one she tells them straight out, too.'”
“And a very admirable trait,” said Roland, enthusiastically.
Miss Verepoint sighed. “P'raps it is,” she said pensively, “but I'm afraid it's what has kept me back in my profession. Managers don't like it: they think girls should be seen and not heard.”
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