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At the Green Room Club Mr. Marrier informed reliable cronies that he was Edward Henry's "confidential adviser." At the Turk's Head, Hanbridge, Edward Henry informed reliable cronies that Mr. Marrier was a sort of clerk, factotum, or maid-of-all-work. A compromise between these two very different conceptions of Mr. Marrier's position had been arrived at in the word "representative."
Marrier's authority forced a way. The first man Edward Henry recognized in the tumult of bodies was Mr. Rollo Wrissell, whom he had not seen since their meeting at Slossons. "Mr. Wrissell," said the glowing Marrier, "let me introduce Mr. Alderman Machin, of the Regent Theatah." "Clumsy fool!" thought Edward Henry, and stood as if entranced. But Mr.
Marrier, in addition to having organized and managed the soirée, might also have written the piece and played every part in it, and founded the Azure Society and built its private theatre. The hour was Mr. Marrier's. Elise April's dressing-room was small and very thickly populated, and the threshold of it was barred by eager persons who were half in and half out of the room. Through these Mr.
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.
I really don't know how it escaped me." Mr. Marrier's trouble was now out, and he had declined in Edward Henry's esteem. Mr. Marrier was afraid of him. Mr. Marrier's list of personages was no longer a miracle of foresight; it was a mere coincidence. He doubted if Mr. Marrier was worth even his three pounds a week. Edward Henry began to feel ruthless, Napoleonic.
"The deuce!" murmured Edward Henry. "May have lost a bit of it, of course," Mr. Marrier hedged. "But not much, not much!" "Well," said Edward Henry, smiling, "what about my tea? Am I to have tea all by myself?" "Will you come down and meet her?" Mr. Marrier's expression approached the wistful. "Well," said Edward Henry, "it's an idea, isn't it?
A single wrench and he ripped up the letter, and cast it into one of the red-lined waste-paper baskets with which the immense and rather shabby writing-room of the Majestic was dotted. Before he had finished dealing with Mr. Marrier's queries and suggestions some ten thousand in all the clock struck, and Nellie tripped into the room. She was in black silk, with hints here and there of gold chains.
Marrier's joy in life seemed to be just the least bit diminished. "So sorry!" Edward Henry began hurriedly, and, without consulting the poet's wishes, subtly turned on all the lights. "Now, don't you think we'd better discuss the question of taking up the option? You know, it expires on Friday." "No," said Rose Euclid, girlishly. "It expires to-morrow.
Marrier gaily soothed him, as he went over to the telephone. And Mr. Marrier's bright, boyish face radiated forth the assurance that nothing in all his existence had more completely filled him with sincere joy than this enterprise of procuring a photograph of the party.
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