“Oh, don't try and be funny, for goodness' sake!” snapped Miss Verepoint. “It doesn't suit you. You haven't the right shape of head. What do you suppose we want to talk over? The theater, of course.”
“What about the theater?”
Miss Verepoint looked searchingly at him. “Don't you ever read the papers?”
“I haven't seen a paper since I went away.”
“Well, better have it quick and not waste time breaking it gently,” said Miss Verepoint. “The theater's been burned down—that's what's happened.”
“Burned down?”
“Burned down!” repeated Roland.
“That's what I said, didn't I? The suffragettes did it. They left copies of 'Votes for Women' about the place. The silly asses set fire to two other theaters as well, but they happened to be in main thoroughfares and the fire-brigade got them under control at once. I suppose they couldn't find the Windsor. Anyhow, it's burned to the ground and what we want to know is what are you going to do about it?”
Roland was much too busy blessing the good angels of Kingsway to reply at once. R. P. de Parys, sympathetic soul, placed a wrong construction on his silence.
“Poor old Roly!” he said. “It's quite broken him up. The best thing we can do is all to go off and talk it over at the Savoy, over a bit of lunch.”