Sachs smiled and stood up. "Or Marguerite," he said, stroking her blonde hair. "'Ich gäb was drum, wenn ich nur wüsst'. Wer heut' der Herr gewesen ist!' Comb business at the mirror. Which show are you here for?"
"You called me down," Robin said. "Don't you know?"
"I'm directing four shows." Sachs smiled patiently. "Which are you?"
"Who He?"
"Oh yes. Yes. I see. You're ... Robin. Lennox gave you the call. It's about the costumes." Sachs hitched a hip onto the corner of the desk, smiled cheerfully, and began flicking the hem of Robin's skirt with his toe. "They were smaller in the early nineteenth century. Much smaller. Have you seen the models in the Dress Museum? We're having trouble with those Philip Nolan costumes. I think we're going to have trouble with you."
"With me? How?"
Sachs reached back and picked up a printed card. It was the conventional file card actresses send to all offices with pictures, measurements and credits printed on it. This one happened to be Robin's.
"I checked your card," Sachs said. "It's the bust that worries me. Thirty-six. I see you weren't exaggerating. Are you married?"
"Yes."
"Any children?"