"Very well," said Marjorie listlessly. She was the more exhausted of the two; for Liss was of the ethereal type that seems to thrive on a diet of next-to-nothing. Neither girl had touched food, except a few biscuits, since the previous evening. This afternoon they had endeavoured to maintain morale by indulging in one of the oldest pastimes known to children of the world—the game of "Let's pretend!"—sturdily endeavouring to hold a fire in their hands by thinking on the frosty Caucasus.
Suddenly there came a tapping on the outer door. Both girls started up.
"Who on earth can that be?" said Marjorie, hurrying automatically to the mirror above the mantelpiece.
"I wonder if it is anybody with any money!" remarked Liss, hastily removing herself from the couch, where she had been stifling the pangs of hunger by lying on her front.
"Go and see!" commanded Marjorie, busy at the mirror.
Liss went out into the little vestibule, and reappeared, followed by a visitor. Her face was a study.
"This gentleman wants to see you, dear," she said solemnly. "I will leave you together!"
Marjorie turned hastily round.
"No—stay!" she commanded. "How do you do, Uncle Fred?"
"I am very well, thank you," said Uncle Fred in a low voice. Apprehension was written upon his features, and his large, weak mouth trembled. This adventure was trying him high. To penetrate into the boudoir of an actress—two actresses, apparently—was practically equivalent to visiting a theatre dressing-room, which he knew to be the last station before perdition.