"Fearfully sorry, you know!"
"I just needed something like that. I've got a Press-agent, and I will say for him that he eats well and sleeps well and has just enough intelligence to cash his monthly cheque without forgetting what he went into the bank for, but outside of that you can take it from me he's not one of the world's workers! He's about as much solid use to a girl with aspirations as a pain in the lower ribs. It's three weeks since he got me into print at all, and then the brightest thing he could thing up was that my favourite breakfast-fruit was an apple. Well, I ask you!"
"Rotten!" said Archie.
"I did think that for once my guardian angel had gone back to work and was doing something for me. 'Stage Star and Midnight Marauder,'" murmured Miss Silverton, wistfully. "'Footlight Favourite Foils Felon.'"
"Bit thick!" agreed Archie, sympathetically. "Well, you'll probably be wanting to get to bed and all that sort of rot, so I may as well be popping, what! Cheerio!"
A sudden gleam came into Miss Silverton's compelling eyes.
"Wait!"
"Eh?"
"Wait! I've got an idea!" The wistful sadness had gone from her manner. She was bright and alert. "Sit down!"
"Sit down?"
"Sure. Sit down and take the chill off the arm-chair. I've thought of something."
Archie sat down as directed. At his elbow the bulldog eyed him gravely from the basket.
"Do they know you in this hotel?"
