"And this," continued Morgan, excitedly stripping off his coat, "is where Mrs. Perrigord comes in. Sing your prayers, lads, to the blessed stars that sent her to us to-night… "
"Gloo!" crowed Mrs. Perrigord. "Oh, you positively owful man, you mustn't say things like that! Whee!"
"… because," he said, tapping Warren on the chest, "she's going to get rid of the people who were to be extras in our places to-night. Don't you see? We can't have anybody behind the scenes but ourselves. Wasn't this Madame Camposozzi to play the piano, and some Russian the violin; yes, and a couple of professors to be warriors…?"
"O Lord! I'd forgotten that!" cried Peggy, freezing. "Oh, Hank, how can we—?"
"Easy! Mrs. Perrigord simply puts on one of those chilly stares of hers when they come down here, and says the places have been filled. We have the organiser of the concert talking for us, and she'll be obeyed; otherwise there'd be a row and we could never wangle it… Listen!" he whirled round to her. "That's all right, isn't it? Mrs. Perrigord — Cynthia — you'll do it for me, won't you?"
There was a world of pleading in his voice. The organiser of the concert did not give him a chilly stare. She said, "Oh, you owful man!" and got up and put her arms round his neck.
"No, listen! Wait a bit — listen, Cynthia!" said Morgan desperately. "Listen to what I have to say. Let go, damn it!
I tell you we can't lose time! Let me get my waistcoat off… "
"I don't think you're making yourself quite clear," observed Warren critically. "Suppose your wife could see you now, you old rip? Let the poor woman go, can't you?"
"You've got to get her in shape to face 'em, Hank!" cried Peggy, flying across the room. "Oh, it's p-perfectly a-aful the w-way we're p-persecuted and t-tortured with these n-nasty drunken p-people…!"