"And do you mean to say," he remarked a little reproachfully, "that you really waste this on dramatic critics?"
"I give them the choice," said Molly gravely. "They can either have that, or hold my hand. So far they have always chosen the champagne." She crossed to the sofa and began arranging the cushions. "Yank out the cork, Tony," she added, "and then come and sit beside me. I want you to give me some of your very best advice."
Tony obeyed her instructions, and filling up the two glasses, carried the tray across to where Molly was reclining. He set it down on the floor within convenient reach, and then seated himself beside her on the sofa.
"What's the trouble?" he inquired sympathetically.
Molly lighted herself a cigarette, and thoughtfully puffed out a little cloud of blue smoke.
"It's Peter," she said. "Something has happened to him; something serious."
"I know it has," said Tony. "He had to pay me five hundred of the best yesterday morning."
Molly shook her head. "It's not that," she said. "I know he hates being beaten at anything; but it wouldn't upset him in the way I mean." She wriggled herself into a slightly more comfortable position. "I've got a notion it's something much bigger," she added.
"Really!" said Tony with interest. "What are the symptoms?"
"Well, he was coming to lunch here yesterday at a quarter to two, and he rang up about one to say he might be a little late. I thought his voice sounded a bit funny over the 'phone—you see I know Peter pretty well by now—and when he rolled up I saw there was something really serious the matter. The poor old dear was so worried and excited he could hardly eat his lunch."