'What!'

'She and you,' said Mr Mifflin, 'were to go in swimming together,
while I waited on the sands, holding our bone-headed Press-agent on a
leash. About a hundred yards from the shore up go her arms. Piercing
scream. Agitated crowds on the beach. What is the matter? What has
happened? A touch of cramp. Will she be drowned? No! G. Barnert
Callender, author of _Fate's Footballs_, which opens at the Beach
Theatre on Monday evening next, at eight-fifteen sharp, will save her.
See! He has her. He is bringing her in. She is safe. How pleased her
mother will be! And the public, what a bit of luck for them! They will
be able to see her act at eight-fifteen sharp on Monday after all. Back
you come to the shore. Cheering crowds. Weeping women. Strong
situation. I unleash the Press-agent, and off he shoots, in time to get
the story into the evening paper. It was a great idea, but I see now
there were one or two flaws in it.'

'You do, do you?' said George.

'It occurs to me on reflection that after all you wouldn't have agreed
to it. A something, I don't know what, which is lacking in your nature,
would have made you reject the scheme.'

'I'm glad that occurred to you.'

'And a far greater flaw was that it was too altruistic. It boomed you
and it boomed Jane, but I didn't get a thing out of it. My revised
scheme is a thousand times better in every way.'