"Rather!"
Maggy moved to one of the mirrors and took up a powder-puff.
"You've got heaps on already," deprecated Alexandra.
"Have I?" She powdered over the rouge. "I do look rather like puff pastry—in layers, don't I? Well, I haven't time to take any of it off. Lexie, De Freyne wants to see you in a minute or two. I don't think it's anything important. He seems in a good temper. Ta-ta, dear."
She ran out and made for the stage-door where Woolf was waiting for her. His car, a big open one, was drawn up opposite it. Maggy wished the girls had not all gone. They had twitted her so often about her lack of a male escort. Now there was no one to see her get in.
"Where are we going?" she asked. "The Savoy?"
"Not this time," said Woolf. "My house is not far off."
"I'd prefer the Savoy," she persisted, although she had never actually been to that restaurant.
Woolf was the sort of man who invariably gets his own way with women. In addition to being characteristically obstinate he was indifferent to any opinion that clashed with his own. If it was one that suited him so much the better; if not, he ignored it. So long as he paid the piper he considered he had the right to call the tune. But before paying he scanned the bill carefully. He was not a gentleman. He met gentlemen sometimes, and was adaptive enough to be mistaken for one. He belonged to one or two nearly-good clubs. He was a man about town in the sense that he was to be seen wherever money could purchase an entrance.
"You'll be quite chaperoned at my place," he assured Maggy. "I've a man and his wife."