"Georgie"
The comedienne laughed. "Madame Merillian's Choir," said she. "I was Madame Merillian—then. I've changed my name, too—for luck."
She turned to Georgie, who had grown very red.
"You're a good chap," she said. "You'll give us a helping hand, won't you? He's as straight as most of them, and a good deal straighter than some. He's speaking the truth now. If you start us, I'll guarantee that the show will pay. I'm a jolly good business manager."
I gazed helplessly at her animated face. Her stupid eyes had grown keen and practical. Lappin nodded friendly approval, Georgie stared, Drusilla was silent.
The comedienne held out her hand appealingly.
"It's all true, dear—every word of it," she said, "except the clergyman. That's an old wheeze, and I was sorry directly I had used it. My father kept a pub in Exeter, but he burst up. He was dropped
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