The manager was talking now to Tommy. "Flo Dearmore wants to see you, Mr. Watson," he said. "Do you know her?"
Tommy nodded. "Come along then—you coming too, Epstein?"
"No." The old comedian smiled affectionately on Tommy as the latter went off with the manager, and then walked away slowly, his lips moving as though he was communing with himself.
At the door of the dressing-room the manager left Tommy, who knocked gently. The door was opened at once by a coloured maid of uncertain age, who turned to her mistress at the sight of Tommy. "It's a gent, honey," she said, and Flo, who was already in street attire, turned to the door. "Come in, Tommy Watson," she said quietly. "Toots," to the maid, "leave us a little while."
Tommy stood near the door, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks full of colour now, his hands rigid by his side. Flo waited, her own cheeks burning, her heart beating fast. Tommy came a little nearer to her, and, "It seems like a long, long time since you went on the stage, Flo Dearmore," he said.
She nodded, and recovering a little of her dashing self, answered, "It's only ten years, Tommy."
"No," said Tommy, "it's more than that—it's all of twenty."
"Tommy!"
"I'm forty and you're thirty—think of that, Flo, and you were ten the first time I saw you on the stage. Don't you remember the pantomime in the old schoolhouse? You were the Queen of the Fairies, and——"
"Yes, but I was still a school-girl."