It was about this time that Roland proposed to Miss Verepoint. The
passage of time and the strain of talking over the revue had to a
certain extent moderated his original fervor. He had shaded off from a
passionate devotion, through various diminishing tints of regard for
her, into a sort of pale sunset glow of affection. His principal reason
for proposing was that it seemed to him to be in the natural order of
events. Her air towards him had become distinctly proprietorial. She
now called him "Roly-poly" in public--a proceeding which left him with
mixed feelings. Also, she had taken to ordering him about, which, as
everybody knows, is an unmistakable sign of affection among ladies of
the theatrical profession. Finally, in his chivalrous way, Roland had
begun to feel a little apprehensive lest he might be compromising Miss
Verepoint. Everybody knew that he was putting up the money for the
revue in which she was to appear; they were constantly seen together at
restaurants; people looked arch when they spoke to him about her. He
had to ask himself: was he behaving like a perfect gentleman? The
answer was in the negative. He took a cab to her flat and proposed
before he could repent of his decision.

She accepted him. He was not certain for a moment whether he was glad
or sorry. "But I don't want to get married," she went on, "until I have
justified my choice of a profession. You will have to wait until I have
made a success in this revue."

Roland was shocked to find himself hugely relieved at this concession.

The revue took shape. There did apparently exist a handful of artistes
to whom Miss Verepoint had no objection, and these--a scrubby but
confident lot--were promptly engaged. Sallow Americans sprang from
nowhere with songs, dances, and ideas for effects. Tousled-haired