Not
lonely with this aching loneliness that tortured him now. What was
there left for him? As regards any triumphs which the future might
bring in connection with his work, he was, as Mac the stage-door
keeper had said, "blarzy". Any success he might have would be but a
stale repetition of other successes which he had achieved. He would
go on working, of course, but--. The ringing of the telephone bell
across the room jerked him back to the present. He got up with a
muttered malediction. Someone calling up again from the theatre
probably. They had been doing it all the time since he had announced
his intention of leaving for America by Saturday's boat.
"Hello?" he said wearily.
"Is that George?" asked a voice. It seemed familiar, but all female
voices 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 friends
till you reach me.
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