“I say,” he emphasized, “I’ve got an ideah.  We ought to be photographed like that.  Do you no end of good.”  He glanced encouragingly at Rose Euclid.  “Don’t you see it in the illustrated papers?  A prayvate supper-party at Wilkins’s Hotel.  Miss Ra-ose Euclid reciting verse at a discussion of the plans for her new theatre in Piccadilly Circus.  The figures, reading from left to right, are, Mr. Seven Sachs, the famous actor-author, Miss Rose Euclid, Mr. Carlo Trent, the celebrated dramatic poet, Mr. Alderman Machin, the well-known Midlands capitalist, and so on!” Mr. Marrier repeated, “and so on.”

“It’s a notion,” said Rose Euclid, dreamily.

“But how can we be photographed?” Carlo Trent demanded with irritation.

“Perfectly easy.”

“Now?”

“In ten minutes.  I know a photographer in Brook Street.”

“Would he come at once?” Carlo Trent frowned at his watch.

“Rather!” Mr. Marrier gaily soothed him, as he went over to the telephone.  And Mr. Marrier’s bright, boyish face radiated forth the assurance that nothing in all his existence had more completely filled him with sincere joy than this enterprise of procuring a photograph of the party.  Even in giving the photographer’s number—­he was one of those prodigies who remember infallibly all telephone numbers—­his voice seemed to gloat upon his project.

(And while Mr. Marrier, having obtained communication with the photographer, was saying gloriously into the telephone:  “Yes, Wilkins’s.  No.  Quite private.  I’ve got Miss Rose Euclid here, and Mr. Seven Sachs”—­while Mr. Marrier was thus proceeding with his list of star attractions, Edward Henry was thinking: 

“’Her new theatre’—­now!  It was ‘his’ a few minutes back!...  ’The well-known Midlands capitalist,’ eh?  Oh!  Ah!”)

He drank again.  He said to himself:  “I’ve had all I can digest of this beastly balloony stuff.” (He meant the champagne.) “If I finish the glass I’m bound to have a bad night.”  And he finished the glass, and planked it down firmly on the table.

“Well,” he remarked aloud cheerfully.  “If we’re to be photographed, I suppose we shall want a bit more light on the subject.”

Joseph sprang to the switches.

“Please!” Carlo Trent raised a protesting hand.

The switches were not turned.  In the beautiful dimness the greatest tragic actress in the world and the greatest dramatic poet in the world gazed at each other, seeking and finding solace in mutual esteem.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do to call it the Euclid Theatre?” Rose questioned casually, without moving her eyes.

“Splendid!” cried Mr. Marrier from the telephone.

“It all depends whether there are enough mathematical students in London to fill the theatre for a run,” said Edward Henry.

“Oh!  D’you think so?” murmured Rose, surprised and vaguely puzzled.