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Angry woman... blames the first person she sees... This paper-knife..." Fillmore's voice trailed off into pained silence. "Mr. Faucitt said Elsa Doland was good." "Oh, she's all right," said Fillmore indifferently. "But " His face brightened and animation crept into his voice. "But the girl you want to watch is Miss Winch. Gladys Winch. She plays the maid.
All right! I know all about it, Fill. And will you kindly inform me how you dared to get engaged without consulting me?" Fillmore blushed richly. "Oh, do you know?" "Yes. Mr. Faucitt told me." "Well..." "Well?" "Well, I'm only human," argued Fillmore. "I call that a very handsome admission. You've got quite modest, Fill." He had certainly changed for the better since their last meeting.
Faucitt, lowering the tone of his address and descending to what might almost be termed personalities, "may not be familiar to a couple of dud acrobats who have only been in the place a week-end, thank heaven, and are off to-morrow to infest some other city. That name," said Mr. Faucitt, soaring once more to a loftier plane, "is Sally. Our Sally.
Faucitt, the old dear, would say all sorts of delightful things about her, and she had mistrusted her ability to make a fitting reply. And it was imperative that a fitting reply should proceed from someone. She knew Mr. Faucitt so well.
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