want to see you do something that isn't in your highbrow programme. I want to see if a what-ch-call-em with Brazilian trimmings—that thing you said you were—can be a little human."
Horace shook his head again.
"I won't kiss you."
"My life is blighted," muttered Marcia tragically. "I'm a beaten woman. I'll go through life without ever having a kiss with Brazilian trimmings." She sighed. "Anyways, Omar, will you come and see my show?"
"What show?"
"I'm a wicked actress from 'Home James'!"
"Light opera?"
"Yes—at a stretch. One of the characters is a Brazilian rice-planter. That might interest you."
"I saw 'The Bohemian Girl' once," reflected Horace aloud. "I enjoyed it—to some extent."
"Then you'll come?"
"Well, I'm—I'm—"
"Oh, I know—you've got to run down to Brazil for the week-end."
"Not at all. I'd be delighted to come—"
Marcia clapped her hands.
"Goodyforyou! I'll mail you a ticket—Thursday night?"
"Why, I—"
"Good! Thursday night it is."
She stood up and walking close to him laid both hands on his shoulders.
"I like you, Omar. I'm sorry I tried to kid you.
