"Sorry I can't keep you any longer, Dolly. I'm dining out. What is it exactly you want?"
"Vell, I believe the girl's a find, Lumpsden. And natcherally I can't do anything at the Dominion—wit'out—wit'out——You understand?"
"I understand. You've seen her dance, I suppose? Is it any good? You know how much of this humbug there's been lately. Is hers something quite special?"
"Quite," said Mr. Dollfus, briefly. He seemed to weigh his opinion once more. "Oh quite!" he said again.
"You see a furore, in fact?"
"Maybe a riot," said Joe.
The financial support smiled. "You've made it such a family matter, Joe, that you won't mind my telling you I don't particularly want riots about relations of mine."
The manager shrugged his shoulders, but did not revise his opinion. Lumsden held out his hand.
"I'll telephone you to-morrow, and fix a night after Christmas when we can talk this over. Meantime, of course, you'll be discreet. Ta-ta, Dolly. I like your song."
An hour later he re-entered the room and flung a fur coat and crush hat on a lounge. He was dressed for dinner, was polishing his nails and appeared thoughtful. Sitting down before a big knee-hole desk, that was tucked away in a corner underneath a telephone, he switched on a light, drew a letter-pad toward him and wrote: