“How’s business, Bill?” she called to him, as she passed the spot where he stood brooding on the mortality of tomatoes. And though he replied “Rotten!” a faint, grim smile did nevertheless flicker across his tragic mask.
Billie Dore, who was one of the chorus of George Bevan’s musical comedy, had an attractive face, a mouth that laughed readily, rather bright golden hair—which, she was fond of insisting with perfect truth, was genuine though appearances were against it—and steady blue eyes. The latter were frequently employed by her in quelling admirers who were encouraged by the former to become too ardent. Billie’s views on the opposite sex who forgot themselves were as rigid as those of Lord Marshmoreton concerning thrips. She liked men, and she would signify this liking in a practical manner by lunching and dining with them, but she was entirely self-supporting and when men overlooked that fact she reminded them of it in no uncertain voice, for she was a girl of ready speech and direct.
“Morning, George. "Morning, Mac. Any mail?”
“I'll see, miss,”
“How did your better four-fifths like the show, Mac?”
“I was just telling Mr. Bevan, miss, that the missus said she ’adn’t seen a livelier show for a long time.”
“Fine. I knew I'd be a hit. Well, George, how’s the boy this bright afternoon?”
“Limp and pessimistic.”
“That comes of sitting up till four in the morning with festive hams.”
“You were up as late as I was, and you look like Little Eva after a night of sweet, childish slumber.”
