"That was just like father," said Jill softly.

"He was a prince."

"But you aren't in the office now?"

"No. I found I had a knack of writing verses and things, and I wrote
a few vaudeville songs. Then I came across a man named Bevan at a
music-publisher's. He was just starting to write music, and we got
together and turned out some vaudeville sketches, and then a manager
sent for us to fix up a show that was dying on the road and we had
the good luck to turn it into a success, and after that it was pretty
good going. Managers are just like sheep. They know nothing whatever
about the show business themselves, and they come flocking after
anybody who looks as if he could turn out the right stuff. They never
think any one any good except the fellow who had the last hit. So,
while your luck lasts, you have to keep them off with a stick. Then
you have a couple of failures, and they skip off after somebody else,
till you have another success, and then they all come skipping back
again, bleating plaintively. George Bevan got married the other
day--you probably read about it--he married Lord Marshmoreton's
daughter. Lucky devil!"

"Are you married?"

"No."

"You were faithful to my memory?" said Jill with a smile.

"I was."