"Perfectly easy."
"Now?"
"In ten minutes. I know a photographer in Brook Street."
"Would he come at once?" Carlo Trent frowned at his watch.
"Rather!" Mr. Marrier gaily soothed him, as he went over to the
telephone. And Mr. Marrier's bright, boyish face radiated forth the
assurance that nothing in all his existence had more completely filled
him with sincere joy than this enterprise of procuring a photograph
of the party. Even in giving the photographer's number--he was one
of those prodigies who remember infallibly all telephone numbers--his
voice seemed to gloat upon his project.
(And while Mr. Marrier, having obtained communication with the
photographer, was saying gloriously into the telephone: "Yes,
Wilkins's. No. Quite private. I've got Miss Rose Euclid here, and Mr.
Seven Sachs"--while Mr. Marrier was thus proceeding with his list of
star attractions, Edward Henry was thinking:
"'_Her_ new theatre'--now! It was 'his' a few minutes back!... 'The
well-known Midlands capitalist,' eh? Oh! Ah!")
He drank again. He said to himself: "I've had all I can digest of this
beastly balloony stuff." (He meant the champagne.) "If I finish the
glass I'm bound to have a bad night." And he finished the glass, and
planked it down firmly on the table.
"Well," he remarked aloud cheerfully. "If we're to be photographed, I
suppose we shall want a bit more light on the subject.
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