"It ain't an art, sir. It's just gettin' 'old of the right little
woman, and 'aving a nice little 'ome of your own to go back to at
night."

"Mac," said Billie admiringly, "you talk like a Tin Pan Alley song
hit, except that you've left out the scent of honeysuckle and Old
Mister Moon climbing up over the trees. Well, you're quite right.
I'm all for the simple and domestic myself. If I could find the
right man, and he didn't see me coming and duck, I'd become one of
the Mendelssohn's March Daughters right away. Are you going,
George? There's a rehearsal at two-thirty for cuts."

"I want to get the evening papers and send off a cable or two. See
you later."

"We shall meet at Philippi."

Mac eyed George's retreating back till he had turned the corner.

"A nice pleasant gentleman, Mr. Bevan," he said. "Too bad 'e's got
the pip the way 'e 'as, just after 'avin' a big success like this
'ere. Comes of bein' a artist, I suppose."

Miss Dore dived into her vanity case and produced a puff with which
she proceeded to powder her nose.

"All composers are nuts, Mac. I was in a show once where the
manager was panning the composer because there wasn't a number in
the score that had a tune to it. The poor geek admitted they
weren't very tuney, but said the thing about his music was that it