IN his bedroom at the Carlton Hotel George Bevan was packing. Thatis to say, he had begun packing; but for the last twenty minutes hehad been sitting on the side of the bed, staring into a futurewhich became bleaker and bleaker the more he examined it. In thelast two days he had been no stranger to these grey moods, and theyhad become harder and harder to dispel. Now, with the steamer-trunkbefore him gaping to receive its contents, he gave himself upwhole-heartedly to gloom.

　　Somehow the steamer-trunk, with all that it implied of partings andvoyagings, seemed to emphasize the fact that he was going out aloneinto an empty world. Soon he would be on board the liner, everyrevolution of whose engines would be taking him farther away fromwhere his heart would always be. There were moments when thetorment of this realization became almost physical.

　　It was incredible that three short weeks ago he had been a happyman. Lonely, perhaps, but only in a vague, impersonal way. Notlonely with this aching loneliness that tortured him now. What wasthere left for him? As regards any triumphs which the future mightbring in connection with his work, he was, as Mac the stage-doorkeeper had said, "blarzy". Any success he might have would be but astale repetition of other successes which he had achieved. He wouldgo on working, of course, but--. The ringing of the telephone bellacross the room jerked him back to the present. He got up with amuttered malediction. Someone calling up again from the theatreprobably. They had been doing it all the time since he had announcedhis intention of leaving for America by Saturday's boat.

　　"Hello?" he said wearily.

　　"Is that George?" asked a voice. It seemed familiar, but all femalevoices sound the same over the telephone.

　　"This is George," he replied. "Who are you?""Don't you know my voice?""I do not.""You'll know it quite well before long. I'm a great talker.'

　　"Is that Billie?""It is not Billie, whoever Billie may be. I am female, George.""So is Billie.""Well, you had better run through the list of your feminine friendstill you reach me.""I haven't any feminine friends.""None?""That's odd.""Why?""You told me in the garden two nights ago that you looked on me asa pal."George sat down abruptly. He felt boneless.

　　"Is--is that you?" he stammered. "It can't be--Maud!""How clever of you to guess. George, I want to ask you one or twothings. In the first place, are you fond of butter?"George blinked. This was not a dream. He had just still hurt mostconvincingly. He needed the evidence to assure himself that he wasawake.

　　"Butter?" he queried. "What do you mean?""Oh, well, if you don't even know what butter means, I expect it'sall right. What is your weight, George?""About a hundred and eighty pounds. But I don't understand.""Wait a minute." There was a silence at the other end of the wire.

　　"About thirteen stone," said Maud's voice. "I've been doing it inmy head. And what was it this time last year?""About the same, I think. I always weigh about the same.""How wonderful! George!""Yes?""This is very important. Have you ever been in Florida?""I was there one winter.""Do you know a fish called the pompano?""Tell me about it.""How do you mean? It's just a fish. You eat it.""I know. Go into details.""There aren't any details. You just eat it."The voice at the other end of the wire purred with approval. "Inever heard anything so splendid. The last man who mentioned pompanoto me became absolutely lyrical about sprigs of parsley and meltedbutter. Well, that's that. Now, here's another very important point.............