"Mr. Dashwood wants to take a theatre," said Mrs. Rooth.
"Then perhaps he's our man."
"Oh, if you'd help him?" cried Mrs. Rooth.
"Help him?"
"Help him to help us."
"We'll all work together; it will be very jolly," said Sherringham gaily. "It's a sacred cause, the love of art, and we shall be a happy band. Dashwood's his name?" he added in a moment. "Mrs. Lovick wasn't a Dashwood."
"It's his nom de théâtre—Basil Dashwood. Do you like it?" Mrs. Rooth inquired.
"You say that as Miriam might do: her talent is catching."
"She's always practising—always saying things over and over, to seize the tone. I have her voice in my ears. He wants her not to have any."
"Not to have any?"
"Any nom de théâtre. He wants her to use her own; he likes it so much. He says it will do so well—you can't better it."
"He's a capital adviser," said Sherringham, getting up. "I'll come back to-morrow."
"I won't ask you to wait till they return, they may be so long," Mrs. Rooth replied.
"Will he come back with her?" Sherringham inquired, smoothing his hat.
"I hope so, at this hour. With my child in the streets I tremble. We don't live in cabs, as you may easily suppose."
"Did they go on foot?" Sherringham continued.
"Oh yes; they started in high spirits."
