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 the right man, and he didn’t see me coming and duck, I'd become one of the Mendelssohn’s March Daughters right away. Are you going, George? There’s a rehearsal at two-thirty for cuts.”

“I want to get the evening papers and send off a cable or two. See you later.”

“We shall meet at Philippi.”

Mac eyed George’s retreating back till he had turned the corner.

“A nice, pleasant gentleman, Mr. Bevan,” he said. “Too bad ’e’s got the pip the way ’e ’as, just after ’avin’ a big success like this ’ere. Comes of bein’ a artist, I suppose.”

Miss Dore dived into her vanity case and produced a puff, with which she proceeded to powder her nose.

“All composers are nuts, Mac. I was in a show once where the manager was panning the composer because there wasn’t a number in the score that had a tune to it. The poor geek admitted they weren’t very tuney, but said the thing about his music was that it had such a wonderful aroma. They all get that way. The jazz seems to go to their heads. George is all right though, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“Have you known him long, miss?”

“About five years. I was a stenographer in the house that published his songs when I first met him. And there’s another thing you’ve got to hand it to George for—he hasn’t let success give him a swelled head. The money that boy makes is sinful, Mac. He wears thousand-dollar bills next to his skin winter and summer. But he’s just the same as he was when I first knew him, when he was just hanging round Broadway looking out for a chance to be allowed to slip a couple of interpolated numbers into any old