longer. Looking back, he could see his father-in-law patting Mr. Connolly affectionately on the shoulder.
Archie and Lucille lingered over their coffee. Mr. Blumenthal was out in the telephone-box settling the business end with Wilson Hymack. The music-publisher had been unstinted in his praise of "Mother's Knee." It was sure-fire, he said. The words, stated Mr. Blumenthal, were gooey enough to hurt, and the tune reminded him of every other song-hit he had ever heard. There was, in Mr. Blumenthal's opinion, nothing to stop the thing selling a million copies.
Archie smoked contentedly.
"Not a bad evening's work, old thing," he said. "Talk about birds with one stone!" He looked at Lucille reproachfully. "You don't seem bubbling over with joy."
"Oh, I am, precious!" Lucille sighed. "I was only thinking about Bill."
"What about Bill?"
"Well, it's rather awful to think of him tied for life to that—that steam-siren."
"Oh, we mustn't look on the jolly old dark side. Perhaps Hallo, Bill, old top! We were just talking about you."
"Were you?" said Bill Brewster, in a dispirited voice.
"I take it that you want congratulations, what?"
"I want sympathy!"
"Sympathy?"
"Sympathy! And lots of it! She's gone!"
"Gone! Who?"
"Spectatia!"
"How do you mean, gone?"
