"I always make carbon copies to refer to myself just before the stuff is to be used. A few minutes ago I took out my copies. Dick! I sent the same repartee to both of them!"
"Good lord!"
"Good lord is meek and futile. So is damn. Put on your little rubber coat, my boy. I predict a hurricane."
In spite of his own troubles, Minot laughed.
"Mirth, eh?" said Paddock grimly. "I can't see it that way. I'll be as popular as a Republican in Texas before this evening is over. Got a couple of hasty rapid-fire resignations all ready. Thought at first I wouldn't come—but that seemed cowardly. Anyway, this is my last appearance on any stage as a librettist. Kindly omit flowers."
And Mr. Paddock drifted gloomily away.
While the servants were passing cocktails on gleaming trays, Minot found the door to the balcony and stepped outside. A white wraith flitted from the shadows to his side.
"Mr. Minot," said a soft, scared little voice.
"Ah—Miss Meyrick," he cried.
Merciful fate this, that they met for the first time since that incident on the ramparts in kindly darkness.