and keep a lot of cads and
blackguards away."

"She ought to marry the prompter or the box-keeper," said Nash. "Then it
would be all right. I think indeed they generally do, don't they?"

Peter felt for a moment a strong disposition to drop his friend on the
spot, to cross to the other side of the street and walk away without
him. But there was a different impulse which struggled with this one and
after a minute overcame it, the impulse that led to his saying
presently: "Has she told you she's--a--she's in love with Nick?"

"No, no--that's not the way I know it."

"Has Nick told you then?"

"On the contrary, I've told _him_."

"You've rendered him a questionable service if you've no proof," Peter
pronounced.

"My proof's only that I've seen her with him. She's charming, poor dear
thing."

"But surely she isn't in love with every man she's charming to."

"I mean she's charming to _me_," Nash returned. "I see her that way. I
see her interested--and what it does to her, with her, _for_ her. But
judge for yourself--the first time you get a chance."

"When shall I get a chance? Nick doesn't come near her."

"Oh he'll come, he'll come; his picture isn't finished."

"You mean _he'll_ be the box-keeper, then?"

"My dear fellow, I shall never allow it," said Gabriel Nash. "It would
be idiotic and quite unnecessary. He's beautifully arranged--in quite a
different line. Fancy his taking that sort of job on his hands! Besides,
she'd never expect it; she's not such a goose. They're very good
friends--it will go on that way. She's an excellent person for him to
know; she'll give him lots of ideas of the plastic kind. He would have
been up there before this, but it has taken him time to play his
delightful trick on his constituents. That of course is pure amusement;
but when once his effect has been well produced he'll get back to
business, and his business will be a very different matter from
Miriam's. Imagine him writing her advertisements, living on her money,
adding up her profits, having rows and recriminations with her agent,
carrying her shawl, spending his days in her rouge-pot. The right man
for that, if she must have one, will turn up. '_Pour le mariage, non_.'
She isn't wholly an idiot; she really, for a woman, quite sees things as
they are."

As Peter had not crossed the street and left Gabriel planted he now
suffered the extremity of irritation. But descrying in the dim vista of
the Edgware Road a vague