"Osborn, do you know her?"
"Know her? No." He added carelessly: "I wish I did."
Marie said in a voice which she tried hard to keep detached: "Why? Oh, yes.... I—I suppose she's the type men would admire very much."
"Well, you were admiring her a few minutes ago."
"In—in a way I was. I mean, she's so smooth, so—so well-kept, and her frock is lovely, with those diamond shoulder-straps and all that black tulle. I thought—you stared as if you knew her."
"I hope I shouldn't stare at any woman because I knew her. As a matter of fact, I believe I know who she is; she's an actress; bound to succeed if she takes the right line, I should think. Just now she's got six lines to speak in that new piece of Mutro's. You know—what's it called?"
"What's her name?"
"Roselle Dates, I think."
Osborn looked at his wife solicitously.
"I'm afraid you're a bit tired, dear; you're getting pale. You had a jolly colour when I met you."