of
real business--not one word! He may be a poet. I daresay he is. He's
a conceited ass. Why, even Bryany was better than that lot. Only
Sachs turned Bryany out. I like Sachs. But he won't open his mouth....
'Capitalist'! Well, they spoilt my appetite, and I hate champagne!...
The poet hates money.... No, he 'hates the thought of money.' And
she's changing her mind the whole blessed time! A month ago she'd
have gone over to Pilgrim, and the poet too, like a
house-a-fire!...Photographed indeed! The bally photographer will be
here in a minute!... They take me for a fool!... Or don't they know
any better?... Anyhow, I am a fool.... I must teach 'em summat!"

He seized the telephone.

"Hello!" he said into it. "I want you to put me on to the drawing-room
of Suite No. 48, please. Who? Oh, me! I'm in the bedroom of Suite No.
48. Machin, Alderman Machin. Thanks. That's all right."

He waited. Then he heard Harrier's Kensingtonian voice in the
telephone asking who he was.

"Is that Mr. Machin's room?" he continued, imitating with a broad
farcical effect the acute Kensingtonianism of Mr. Marrier's tones. "Is
Miss Ra-ose Euclid there? Oh! She is! Well, you tell her that Sir John
Pilgrim's private secretary wishes to speak to her? Thanks. All right.
_I_'ll hold the line."

A pause. Then he heard Rose's voice in the telephone, and he resumed:

"Miss Euclid? Yes. Sir John Pilgrim. I beg pardon! Banks? Oh, _Banks_!
No, I'm not Banks. I suppose you mean my predecessor. He's left. Left
last week. No, I don't know why. Sir John instructs me to ask if you
and Mr. Trent could lunch with him to-morrow at wun-thirty? What?
Oh! at his house. Yes. I mean flat. Flat! I said flat. You think you
could?"

Pause. He could hear her calling to Carlo Trent.

"Thanks. No, I don't know exactly," he went on again. "But I know the
arrangement with Miss Pryde is broken off. And Sir John wants a play
at once. He told me that! At once! Yes. 'The Orient Pearl.' That was
the title. At the Royal first, and then the world's tour. Fifteen
months at least in all, so I gathered. Of course I don't speak
officially. Well, many thanks. Saoo good of you. I'll tell Sir John
it's arranged. One-thirty to-morrow. Good-bye!"

He hung up the telephone. The excited, eager, effusive tones of Rose
Euclid remained in his ears. Aware of a strange phenomenon on his
forehead, he touched it. He was perspiring.

"I'll teach 'em a thing or two," he muttered.

And again