"
"Miss Joy," said Edward Henry, "I've come over from London specially
to see you. I want to make up the loss of that ten thousand pounds as
far as I can. I'll explain at once. I'm running a poetical play of
the highest merit, called 'The Orient Pearl,' at my new theatre in
Piccadilly Circus. If you will undertake a small part in it--a part
of three words only--I'll pay you a record salary, sixty-six pounds
thirteen and four-pence a word--two hundred pounds a week!"
Isabel Joy jumped up.
"Are you another of them, then?" she muttered. "I did think from the
look of you that you would know a gentlewoman when you met one!
Did you imagine for the thousandth part of one second that I would
stoop--"
"Stoop!" exclaimed Edward Henry. "My theatre is not a music-hall--"
"You want to make it into one!" she stopped him.
"Good day to you," she said. "I must face those journalists again, I
suppose. Well, even they--! I came alone in order to avoid them. But
it was hopeless. Besides, is it my duty to avoid them--after all?"
It was while passing through the door that she uttered the last words.
"Where is she?" Seven Sachs inquired, entering.
"Fled!" said Edward Henry.
"Everything all right?"
"Quite!"
Mr. Rentoul Smiles came in.
"Mr. Smiles," said Edward Henry, "did you ever photograph Sir John
Pilgrim?"
"I did, on his last visit to New York.
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