"Good! Well, I was in love, and I've got her initials—C. L.—tattooed on me now!"
"Impossible! How exciting! Who is C. L.?"
He looked round the table and murmured in a low voice, "Cissie Loftus. Isn't it odd? I wrote and told her about it, but I never received an answer to my letter."
"Poor, poor boy! I call that really touching! Will you show me the initials some day?"
"Oh no. Impossible." He was stern, adamantine. She hastily went on. "So you're very keen—interested in the stage, Mr. Rathbone?"
"Well, in the stage door. I collect programmes, and I haven't missed a first night since I was twenty!"
"Fancy! Then I ought to remember your face, at all the theatres!"
"I mean at the Gaiety," he said, "only the Gaiety."
"Oh, the Gaiety!" she turned her shoulder to him.