George Bross was eighty-five per-centum of the house Romance.  The remainder was Miss Violet Prim.  Mr. Bross sat a step or two below Miss Prim, his knees adjacent to his chin, his face, upturned to his charmer, wreathed in a fond and fatuous smile.  From her higher plane, she smiled in like wise down upon him.  She seemed in the eyes of her lover unusually fair—­and was:  Saturday was her day for seeming unusually fair; by the following Thursday there would begin to be a barely perceptible shadow round the roots of her golden hair....

She was a spirited and abundant creature, hopelessly healthy beneath the coat of paint, powder and peroxide with which she armoured herself against the battle of Life.  Normally good-looking in ordinary daylight, she was a radiant beauty across footlights.  Her eyes were bright even at such times as belladonna lacked in them; her nose pretty and pert; her mouth, open for laughter (as it usually was), disclosed twin rows of sound, white, home-made teeth.  Her active young person was modelled on generous lines and, as a rule, clothed in a manner which, if inexpensive, detracted nothing from her conspicuous sightliness.  She was fond of adorning her pretty, sturdy shoulders, as well as her fetching and shapely, if plump, ankles, with semi-transparent things—­and she was quite as fond of having them admired.

P. Sybarite, approaching the gate, delicately averted his eyes....

At that moment, George was announcing in an undertone:  “Here’s the lollop now.”

“You are certainly one observin’ young gent,” remarked Miss Prim in accents of envious admiration.

Ignoring the challenge, Bross pondered hastily.  “Think I better spring it on him now?” he enquired in doubt.

“My Gawd, no!” protested the lady in alarm.  “I’d spoil the plant, sure.  I’d love to watch you feed it to him, but Heaven knows I’d never be able to hold in without bustin’.”

“You think he’ll swallow it, all right?”

“That simp?” cried Miss Prim in open derision.  “Why, he’ll eat it alive!”

P. Sybarite walked into the front yard, and the chorus lady began to crow with delight, welcoming him with wild wavings of a pretty, powdered forearm.

“Well, look who’s here!  ’Tis old George W. Postscript—­as I live!  Hitherwards, little one:  I wouldst speech myself to thee.”

Smiling, P. Sybarite approached the pair.  He liked Miss Prim for her unaffected high spirits, and because he was never in the least ill at ease with her.

“Well?” he asked pleasantly, blinking up at the lady from the foot of the steps.  “What is thy will, O Breaker of Hearts?”

“That’ll be about all for yours,” announced Violet reprovingly.  “You hadn’t oughta carry on like that—­at your age, too!  Not that I mind—­I rather like it; but what’d your family say if they knew you was stuck on an actress?”

“‘Love blows as the wind blows,’” P. Sybarite quoted gently.  “How shall I hide the fact of my infatuation?  If my family cast me off, so be it!”