had declined to take up any of his tickets in advance.  He had commenced an action against a firm of bill-posters.  He had settled an incipient strike in the ‘limes’ departments, originated by Mr. Cosmo Clark’s views about lighting.  He had dictated answers to seventy-nine letters of complaint from unknown people concerning the supply of free seats for the first night.  He had responded in the negative to a request from a newspaper critic who, on the score that he was deaf, wanted a copy of the play.  He had replied finally to an official of the County Council about the smoke-trap over the stage.  He had replied finally to another official of the County Council about the electric sign.  He had attended to a new curiosity on the part of another official of the County Council about the iron curtain.  But he had been almost rude to still another official of the County Council about the wiring of the electric light in the dressing-rooms.  He had been unmistakably and pleasurably rude in writing to Slossons about their criticisms of the lock on the door of Lord Woldo’s private entrance to the theatre.  Also he had arranged with the representative of the Chief Commissioner of Police concerning the carriage regulations for “setting-down and taking-up.”

And he had indeed had more than enough.  His nerves, though he did not know it, and would have scorned the imputation, were slowly giving way.  Hence, really, the danger to the pane!  Through the pane, in the dying light, he could see a cross-section of Shaftesbury Avenue, and an aged newspaper-lad leaning against a lamp-post and displaying a poster which spoke of Isabel Joy.  Isabel Joy yet again!  That little fact of itself contributed to his exasperation.  He thought, considering the importance of the Regent Theatre and the salary he was paying to his press-agent, that the newspapers ought to occupy their pages solely with the metropolitan affairs of Edward Henry Machin.  But the wretched Isabel had, as it were, got London by the throat.  She had reached Chicago from the West, on her triumphant way home, and had there contrived to be arrested, according to boast, but she was experiencing much more difficulty in emerging from the Chicago prison than in entering it.  And the question was now becoming acute whether the emissary of the Militant Suffragettes would arrive back in London within the specified period of a hundred days.  Naturally, London was holding its breath.  London will keep calm during moderate crises—­such as a national strike or the agony of the House of Lords—­but when the supreme excitation is achieved London knows how to let itself go.

“If you please, Mr. Machin—­”

He turned.  It was his typewriter, Miss Lindop, a young girl of some thirty-five years, holding a tea-tray.

“But I’ve had my tea once!” he snapped.

“But you’ve not had your dinner, sir, and it’s half-past eight!” she pleaded.

He had known this girl for less than a month, and he paid her fewer shillings a week than the years of her age—­and yet somehow she had assumed a worshipping charge of him, based on the idea that he was incapable of taking care of himself.  To look at her appealing eyes one might have thought that she would have died to ensure his welfare.