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The authors were all for rebuilding the Windsor. True, it would take time, but it would be more satisfactory in every way. Besides, at this time of the year it would be no easy matter to secure another theater at a moment’s notice.

To R. P. de Parys and Bromham Rhodes the destruction of the Windsor Theater had appeared less in the light of a disaster than as a direct intervention on the part of Providence. The completion of that tiresome second act, which had brooded over their lives like an ugly cloud, could now be postponed indefinitely.

“Of course,” said R. P. de Parys, thoughtfully, “our contract with you makes it obligatory on you to produce our revue by a certain date–but I dare say, Bromham, we could meet Roly there, couldn’t we?”

“Sure!” said Rhodes. “Something nominal, say a further five hundred on account of fees would satisfy us. I certainly think it would be better to rebuild the Windsor, don’t you, R. P.?”

“I do,” agreed R. P. de Parys, cordially. “You see, Roly, our revue has been written to fit the Windsor. It would be very difficult to alter it for production at another theater. Yes, I feel sure that rebuilding the Windsor would be your best course.”

There was a pause.

“What do you think, Roly-poly?” asked Miss Verepoint, as Roland made no sign.

“Nothing would delight me more than to rebuild the Windsor, or to take another theater, or do anything else to oblige,” he said, cheerfully. “Unfortunately, I have no more money to burn.”

It was as if a bomb had suddenly exploded in the room. A dreadful silence fell upon his hearers. For the moment no one spoke. R. P. de Parys woke with a start out of a beautiful dream of prawn curry and Bromham Rhodes forgot that he had not tasted food for nearly two hours. Miss Verepoint was the first to break the silence.

“Do you mean to say,” she gasped, “that you didn’t insure the place?”

Roland shook his head. The particular form in which Miss Verepoint had put the question entitled him, he felt, to make this answer.

“Why didn’t you?” Miss Verepoint’s tone was almost menacing.

“Because it did not appear to me to be necessary.”

Nor was it necessary, said Roland to his conscience. Mr. Montague had done all the insuring that was necessary–and a bit over.

Miss Verepoint fought with her growing indignation, and lost. “What about the salaries of the people who have been rehearsing all this time?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry that they should be out of an engagement, but it is scarcely my fault. However, I propose to give each of them a month’s salary. I can manage that, I think.”

Miss Verepoint rose. “And what about me? What about me, that’s what I want to know. Where do I get off? If you think I’m going to marry you without your getting a theater and putting up this revue you’re jolly well mistaken.”

Roland made a gesture which was intended to convey regret and resignation. He even contrived to sigh.

“Very well, then,” said Miss Verepoint, rightly interpreting this behavior as his final pronouncement on the situation. “Then everything’s jolly well off.”

She swept out of the room, the two authors following in her wake like porpoises behind a liner. Roland went to his bureau, unlocked it and took out a bundle of documents. He let his fingers stray lovingly among the fire insurance policies which energetic Mr. Montague had been at such pains to secure from so many companies.

“And so,” he said softly to himself, “am I.”