"Oh, you can have him if you like," said Felicity, "and if you can. You wouldn't get on, really. You see, he isn't romantic, like you, and he likes people best who don't run after him."
"Yes, I have often noticed that in people," said Vera thoughtfully. "I'll tell you some one, though, who really interests me; that is your friend, Arthur Mervyn, the actor. He has such a wonderful profile."
"Yes—in fact, two. Oh, that reminds me, I came to ask you to come to Madame Tussaud's to-morrow afternoon. We're making up a party to go to the Chamber of Horrors. I'm taking Sylvia and Bertie. But I can't manage Arthur Mervyn and Bertie too,—at least, not at the Waxworks,—so I'm going some other day with him—I mean Arthur."
"Oh, what fun! I should love to come! Thanks, dearest."
"All right. Meet us there at four, and if you ever meet Arthur Mervyn again, don't talk about the stage. He hates it."
"What does he like?"
"He's interested in murders, and things of that kind," said Felicity; "or anything cheery, you know, but not the theatre."
"Do you think he would come to see me if I asked him?" asked Vera.
"He hates paying visits," said Felicity, and she glanced round the room judicially, "but if you can make him believe that some horrible crime has been acted here,—I must say it doesn't look like it, all pink and white!—then I think he would call. Or, if you suggested—just hinted—that you believed the liftman had once been mixed up in some horrible case—I think he likes poisoning or strangling best—then he'd come like a shot!"
Felicity got up laughing.