A little ripple of laughter floated down the wire. "Don't be funny, Tony. It's Molly—Molly Monk. I want to see you."
"The longing is a mutual one," observed Tony. "I was just going to bed, but it's a morbid custom. Suppose I come along in the car instead and take you out to supper?"
"I'd love it," answered Molly regretfully, "but I'm afraid it can't be done. I have promised to go on and sing at one of Billy Higginson's evenings. He is the only composer in London who can write a tune." She paused. "What about to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," said Tony, "is also a day."
"Well, I am going out to lunch, but I do want to see you if you could manage it. Couldn't you run over in the car and look me up some time in the morning? I'll give you a small bottle of champagne if you will."
"I don't want any bribing," said Tony with dignity. "Is it good champagne?"
"Very good," said Molly. "It's what I keep for dramatic critics."
"I think I might be able to come then. What is it you want to see me about?"
"Oh, I'll tell you to-morrow," came back the answer. "I really mustn't stop now because Daisy Grey's waiting for me in her car. Thanks so much. It's awfully dear of you, Tony. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Tony, and replacing the receiver upon its hook, he resumed his interrupted progress to bed.