"Oh, I've something to show you. Do you know that name?"
Olga took a business-card, and read upon it: "Alexander Otway, Dramatic & Musical Agent."
"It's his brother," she said, in a voice of quiet surprise.
"I thought so. The man called yesterday—wants a fetching thing to boom an Irish girl at the halls. There's her photo."
It represented a piquant person in short skirts; a face neither very pretty nor very young, but likely to be deemed attractive by the public in question. They amused themselves over it for a moment.
"He used to be a journalist," said Olga. "Does he seem to be doing well?"
"Couldn't say. A great talker, and a furious Jingo."
"Jingo?"
"This woman is to sing a song of his composition, all about the Empire. Not the hall; the British. Glorifies the Flag, that blessed rag—a rhyme I suggested to him, and asked him to pay me for. It's a taking tune, and we shall have it everywhere, no doubt. He sang a verse—I wish you could have heard him. A queer fish!"
Olga walked about, seeming to inspect the pictures, but in reality much occupied with her thoughts.