ng the intermission. There
was a general babble of conversation. Here, a composer who had not got
an interpolated number in the show was explaining to another composer
who had not got an interpolated number in the show the exact source
from which a third composer who had got an interpolated number in the
show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated. There, two
musical comedy artists who were temporarily resting were agreeing that
the prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary as it was to their
life-long policy to knock anybody, they must say that she was
beginning to show the passage of years a trifle and ought to be warned
by some friend that her career as an _ingenue_ was a thing of the
past. Dramatic critics, slinking in twos and threes into dark corners,
were telling each other that "The Rose of America" was just another of
those things but it had apparently got over. The general public was of
the opinion that it was a knock-out.

"Otie, darling," said Mrs. Waddesleigh Peagrim, leaning her ample
shoulder on Uncle Chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking across
him to young Mr. Pilkington, "I do congratulate you, dear. It's
perfectly delightful! I don't know when I have enjoyed a musical piece
so much. Don't you think it's perfectly darling, Major Selby?"

"Capital!" agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored as
near extinction as makes no matter. "Congratulate you, my boy!"

"You clever, clever thing!" said Mrs. Peagrim, skittishly striking her
nephew on the knee with her fan. "I'm proud to be your aunt! Aren't
you proud to know him, Mr. Rooke?"

The fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species of
stupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of the
McWhustle of McWhustle in action. There had been other dark moments in
Freddie's life. Once, back in London, Parker had sent him out into the
heart of the West End without his spats and he had not discovered
their absence till he was half-way up Bond Street. On another
occasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, he
had discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-school
champion. He had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-off
of the engagement between Jill Mariner and Derek Underhill, and sad
when it had been brought to his notice that London was giving Derek
the cold shoulder in consequence. But never in his whole career had he
experienced such gloom and such sadne