The Honey-Pot. Countess Barcynska

last up to concert pitch and the principals letter-perfect, the dress rehearsal took place. Maggy was in the front row, looking big and beautiful in a Futurist creation of rose fleshings and black chiffon. The front row girls were very carefully chosen for opulence of figure. Alexandra had been relegated to the back. She was disappointing in tights, which means nothing more than that if a butcher did not approve her an artist might.

      It was over at last, the long performance with its glitter, glare and gaiety. There was nothing in it, but all London would flock to see it because the music was catchy and the girls so pretty and the whole show so symbolical of the light side of life. For several days afterwards rehearsals were frequent. The usual "cuts" and alterations had to be made, the show licked into shape.

      On one of these occasions Maggy received a message from De Freyne. He wanted to see her. Leaving Alexandra in the dressing room she went up to the managerial office. It was nearly one o'clock.

      "I'm glad you took my advice," he said in a friendly tone. "You've been turning yourself out much better."

      "Thanks," Maggy answered. "Is that all?"

      "No. I'm going to put you in the way of dressing really well. A very decent chap wants to know you. You'll be lucky if he likes you."

      "That's your opinion. Well, he can like me as much as he likes. But I'm straight."

      De Freyne chewed the end of his mustache.

      "You get these silly notions from the girl you live with," he said impatiently. "I'll mix advice with a bit of prophecy. If you don't try and make yourselves more agreeable you'll find you're in—"

      "Queer Street?"

      "It's equivalent—Garrick Street and Maiden Lane—out of a shop. It doesn't hurt you to be nice to a fellow, does it? He may ask you to lunch. Duchesses lunch."

      "I'm not a duchess, and I'm particular who I lunch with."

      At the end of her sentence the door opened and a man looked in. He had heard her, and was amused.

      Maggy's look as she turned to acknowledge De Freyne's introduction was inimical. She knew perfectly well what that introduction portended. She must be hard. She had repulsed other men. She could take care of herself. But this man—what was his name—Woolf?—loomed tall and big over her, big as Fate, possessive. He exercised a spell: he appealed to her. She knew it in the first moment that she looked at him. She knew she would like to lunch with him, and that she would inwardly be disappointed if she had the strength of mind to refuse. When the invitation came she accepted it with cheeky reservation.

      "All right, Mr. Woolf, so long as you don't think I'm Little Red Riding-hood and included in the menu."

      The capitulation satisfied her conscience. Then she remembered Alexandra.

      "I must go and tell my friend not to wait for me," she said.

      "Miss Hersey?" supplied De Freyne. "You might also ask her to come in here in ten minutes, will you?"

      "My car's outside," said Woolf. "You'll find me at the stage-door."

      Maggy ran along to the dressing room where she had left Alexandra. The other girls had gone.

      "Lexie, I'm going out to lunch," she began breathlessly. "I wish you were coming too. Do you mind? I shan't be long. I'll cut home as quickly as I can."

      She could not hide her excitement. It showed in an added sparkle of the eyes, a catch in the voice. Alexandra wondered what else besides an invitation to lunch could have created this effect. It caused her vague uneasiness. But prospective enjoyment was so clearly written all over Maggy's face that she refrained from expressing it.

      "Of course I don't mind," she said. "I hope you will enjoy yourself."

      "You are a dear!" Maggy felt awkward. "You—you don't think it's wrong?"

      "There's nothing wrong in going to lunch with anybody. Especially if he's—all right, and knows you are, too."

      "He's nice, I think."

      "I'm glad. But be careful, Maggy."

      "Rather!"

      Maggy moved to one of the mirrors and took up a powder-puff.

      "You've got heaps on already," deprecated Alexandra.

      "Have I?" She powdered over the rouge. "I do look rather like puff pastry—in layers, don't I? Well, I haven't time to take any of it off. Lexie, De Freyne wants to see you in a minute or two. I don't think it's anything important. He seems in a good temper. Ta-ta, dear."

      She ran out and made for the stage-door where Woolf was waiting for her. His car, a big open one, was drawn up opposite it. Maggy wished the girls had not all gone. They had twitted her so often about her lack of a male escort. Now there was no one to see her get in.

      "Where are we going?" she asked. "The Savoy?"

      "Not this time," said Woolf. "My house is not far off."

      "I'd prefer the Savoy," she persisted, although she had never actually been to that restaurant.

      Woolf was the sort of man who invariably gets his own way with women. In addition to being characteristically obstinate he was indifferent to any opinion that clashed with his own. If it was one that suited him so much the better; if not, he ignored it. So long as he paid the piper he considered he had the right to call the tune. But before paying he scanned the bill carefully. He was not a gentleman. He met gentlemen sometimes, and was adaptive enough to be mistaken for one. He belonged to one or two nearly-good clubs. He was a man about town in the sense that he was to be seen wherever money could purchase an entrance.

      "You'll be quite chaperoned at my place," he assured Maggy. "I've a man and his wife."

      "I don't need a man and his wife to look after me," she retorted sharply.

      He gave her an attentive stare. "Who does look after you?" His meaning was obvious.

      "Myself, of course. Why don't we go to the Savoy?"

      "How persistent you are. Do you want to know why, really? Promise you won't be offended?"

      "If I am I'll hop out."

      "Well ... when you let me buy you some pretty clothes I'll take you there."

      He half expected she might "hop out," especially as the car had come to a standstill in a traffic block. She looked hot-tempered. But Maggy was too level-headed to be sensitive on the score of clothes.

      "I suppose that king in the story wouldn't have been seen with his beggar maid at the Savoy until he'd dressed her out," she remarked ironically. "Well, you won't go there with me any time, anyway."

      "Why not?"

      "Because this young woman provides her own wardrobe."

      "We shall see."

      Woolf liked her spirit, otherwise her independence might have irritated him.

      Arrived at his house he gave her in charge of his man's wife. Maggy disliked the woman on sight. There was something furtive about her. She gave the impression of being one who was used to waiting on ladies in a single man's house. Sly and secret amusement lurked in her eyes. She lingered, unostentatiously, while Maggy prinked herself in front of the glass. After a minute or two she turned, and intimated that she was ready.

      "Wouldn't you like to take off your hat, miss?"

      There was something unpleasantly insinuating in the smooth tones.

      "No, thanks," said Maggy shortly.

      "You've left your purse on the table, miss."

      "Have I? There's nothing in it. It'll be quite safe."

      The woman led the way downstairs and ushered her into a room half-library, half-drawing-room.

      "Find everything you wanted?" inquired Woolf, coming forward to meet her.

      "Yes, thanks. What a swanky bed-room! Silver