ISS MARY ELIOT bent over Sandy McGrab's chair, and kissed Sandy McGrab gently on the cheek.
“I suppose I oughtn't to,” she admitted, “but then I oughtn't to do such a lot of things, For instance, I oughtn't to be here in your flat with the chaperon outside in the car perfectly helpless and useless; and I certainly oughtn't to let you know how fond I am of you. I'm told it's the worst possible beginning to marriage. And we are to be married. You haven't forgotten, have you?”
Sandy McGrab referred to an appointment book.
“It's this day three months,” he announced solemnly.
“How wise of you to have made a note of it! When do you think we ought to start rehearsing?”
“Must we rehearse?”
“I think it extremely necessary. On the stage you may be a very excellent actor, Mr. McGrab, but in real life you are appalling. I know, when you walk up the aisle, you will look the most miserable of men.”
“Which surely shows that I can act anywhere. For,” said Sandy McGrab slowly and portentously, “I shall be feeling vurry happy.”
Mary Eliot laughed.
“That was really quite pretty, and most delicately expressed. As a reward, we will defer rehearsals for the present. Let me look at next week's program instead.” She bent forward and took the proofs out of his hand, holding them at a distance for a critical inspection. Then she read aloud:
“Oh, my dear, how dreadful and incongruous it does sound! Why wouldn't you let yourself be called Reginald Vernon, or something pretty like that?”
“My name is Sandy McGrab,” was the firm answer. “I canna be called by anything else.”
“Dear me, and, when I'm married, shall I have to act Cleopatra as Mrs. Sandy McGrab?”
“You chose the name, ye maun stick to it,” said McGrab pleasantly.
“Well, that's too bad! Who could be fascinating and Mrs. Sandy McGrab at the same time?”
“You could.”
“Oh!”
She found no immediate retort, and a minute later the door opened, revealing a discreet and apologetic manservant.
“If you please, sir, the lady in the car wants to know if Miss Eliot will be coming soon. She says she has waited an hour, and it's getting cold. And there's a gentleman to see you, sir. He says he has an appointment.”
“Oh, yes; that's Meredith. You can show him up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miss Eliot drew her furs over her shoulders
“I suppose I shall have to go. An hour is rather a long time to keep the poor, dear thing in a bitter east wind. Who is the visitor, Sandy McGrab?”
“Alec Meredith. Ye maun hae heard of him. He wrote grand plays once, but now he's tired out—finished. He gave me a play of his to read and pass on to Hadley.”
“I see.” She looked at him mockingly. “I suppose he thought if the public swallowed Sandy McGrab, Scotch accent and all, it would swallow anything. What's your verdict?”
He got up with a short sigh, and began to arrange his papers, with an absent-minded orderliness.
“It's a puir play—I canna tell him otherwise. But I'm' sorry. He has a wife. I think sometimes—they're no so far from starving. And if only he could hae a chance, a rest, he might do good work again.”
“Oh, Sandy!” She came quickly back and laid her hand on his arm. “Sandy, I didn't mean to laugh! It's all so sad. Can't you help them?”
“I canna make a bad play into a guid one, can I, princess?”
“No, I suppose not. Well, I mustn't keep you. And if I am caught here, I shan't have even a rag of a reputation left me. Good-by, dear.”
“Good-by, princess.”
But she was already too late. On the threshold, she stumbled against the visitor, who drew back with a muttered apology. He even waited until she had disappeared round a bend in the stairs before he entered. His action seemed less the result of interest than of an utter apathy. He carried himself like a man exhausted by weeks of overwork, his head bent, his shoulders rounded, his eyes—which must once have been brilliantly handsome—lackluster, and heavy with discontent. Yet he was still young. There was, indeed, nothing old about him save his clothes and the lines of almost savage bitterness that inclosed the corners of his mouth. He bowed to Sandy McGrab with a stiff courtesy.
“I hope I have not come at an inopportune moment, Mr. McGrab.”
“By no means. I was expecting you. My future wife, Miss Eliot, has just left me a message about—about next week's performance. Will ye no be seated?”