“Quite soon now, Phil-ipp.”
“And then what are you doin’?”
“I am going to take Gran’ma to Brighton for a fortnight, and then I’m going to tour the provinces as Lady Agatha in Kind Hearts and Coronets, until Mr. Wingrove’s new play is put into rehearsal at the Millennium.”
Mr. Philip had ordered half a bottle of Number 68, it is rather important to mention, although it had gone up half-a-crown in spite of the fact that some people think it is quite expensive enough already.
“Goin’ to be leadin’ a full life, ain’t you, Polly?”
“Seems like it, doesn’t it, Phil-ipp!”
“Well, I think you ought to turn up those beastly provinces, I do really. You are much too good for ’em. I don’t know much about it, of course, but it seems to me that such art as yours is wasted on the bally provinces.”
“Perhaps you are right, Phil-ipp,” said Mary the demure. “But I love the dear old things.”
“If I were you, Polly, I should never play out of London, if I had to play at all.”
Polly admitted there might be something in this view. Still, she would miss the dear old provinces terribly, and perhaps they might miss her.