Those were great days. There was a hat ...

Life, in short, was very full and splendid. There was, indeed, but one
thing which kept it from being perfect. The usual drawback to success is
that it annoys one's friends so; but in Annette's case this drawback was
absent. Sellers' demeanour towards her was that of an old-established
inmate welcoming a novice into the Hall of Fame. Her pupils--worthy
souls, though bone-headed--fawned upon her. Beverley seemed more pleased
than anyone. Yet it was Beverley who prevented her paradise from being
complete. Successful herself, she wanted all her friends to be successful;
but Beverley, to her discomfort, remained a cheery failure, and worse,
absolutely refused to snub Sellers. It was not as if Sellers' advice and
comments were disinterested. Beverley was simply the instrument on which
he played his songs of triumph. It distressed Annette to such an extent
that now, if she went upstairs and heard Sellers' voice in the studio,
she came down again without knocking.

* * * * *

One afternoon, sitting in her room, she heard the telephone-bell ring.

The telephone was on the stairs, just outside her door. She went out
and took up the receiver.

'Halloa!' said a querulous voice. 'Is Mr Beverley there?'

Annette remembered having heard him go out. She could always tell his
footstep.