"It's Stonehouse—my old friend—I was telling you about him—we don't need to introduce you, Mademoiselle."
She gave him her hand, palm down, to kiss, and he turned it over deliberately. The fingers were loaded to the knuckles. He reflected that each of these stones had its history, tragic, comic or merely sordid. He let her hand drop. He saw that the affront had not touched her. Perhaps others had begun like that.
"Ce cher docteur—'e don't like me," she complained pathetically to Cosgrave. "'E sit opposite to me and glare like a 'ungry tiger. Believe me, I grow quite cold with fear. Tell me why you don't like me, Monsieur?"
"He was only wanting to be asked," Cosgrave broke in with his high, excited laugh. "Why, he introduced us. I was all down and out—couldn't decide which bridge to chuck myself off from—and he lugged me into your show. He said——"
"Well, what 'e say?"
Cosgrave blushed.
"He said: 'Let's see what going to the devil can do for you.'"
She jerked a jewelled thumb at him, appealing to Stonehouse.
"'E 'as cheek, that young man. 'E send in 'is card to my dressing-room, saying 'e got to meet me. Comme ca! As though anyone could just walk in! I was curious to see a young man with cheek like that. So I let 'im come. Et nous voila!" She leant across to Stonehouse, speaking confidentially, earnestly. "But you—c'est autre chose—monsieur est bien range—an artist perhaps for all that—'e see me dance and think perhaps, 'Voyons—she cannot dance at all—nor sing—nor nozzings. Just enjoy 'erself.' You think I don't deserve all I get, hein?"
"I think," said Stonehouse smiling, "that there are others in your profession less fortunate, Mademoiselle."