*    *    *    *    *

But if one raised one's eyebrows at these and similar exercises in self-expression, at
shoplifting one definitely pursed the lips. Here, one felt, she had gone too far. Not
her fault, of course. It was, he supposed, a sort of mental illness. Paradoxically,
she helped herself because she could not help herself.

*    *    *    *    *

The arresting of shoplifters, like Art, knows no frontiers.

*    *    *    *    *

"You speak like a poet," she said, feeling for the first time that the aura of wealth
that floated about him like some lovely scent was not his only claim to her esteem,
and she bestowed on him one of those melting glances which hit a susceptible man
like the kick of a mule.

*    *    *    *    *

Surprisingly in a woman who in the course of a long career had spread more nervous
breakdowns among directors, leading men, supporting players and assistant stage
managers than any other female star of her weight and age, Dame Flora's vocal
delivery was soft and gentle. She had never been one of those empresses of stormy
emotion so popular at one time who raged and bellowed; she got her effects more subtly.
One of her playwrights, speaking from the nursing home where he was recovering from
nervous exhaustion, had once described her as the vulture who cooed like a dove.

*    *    *    *    *

Somebody in the vicinity seemed to be playing the trap drums,
but investigation told him that it was only his heart beating.


*    *    *    *    *

Did you ever hear the story of the actress who was walking past the fish shop
and saw all those fishy eyes staring at her? "That reminds me," she said, "I have
a Wednesday matinee."

*    *    *    *    *

His aspect was grave. He looked, as always, as if he had been carved from some
durable form of wood by someone who was taking a correspondence course in
sculpture and had just reached the third lesson.

*    *    *    *    *

"What?" he said, and never had more consternation, agitation, indignation and
incredulity been condensed into the restricted limits of a monosyllable.

*    *    *    *    *

He was not a physically attractive man. His complexion was muddy, his ears
stuck out like the handles of an antique Greek vase, and he had the beak
and eyes of a farmyard fowl.

*    *    *    *    *

Dame Flora uttered what in a less musical voice than hers would have been
a blend of snort and squeak. Even when registering it on the stage she
had never given a more convincing exhibition of incredulity.

*    *    *    *    *

His acquaintance with her had left him with the conviction that she was a girl who,
like the Canadian mounted police, would not fail to get her man.

*    *    *    *    *

His aspect was that of one who has been looking for the leak in a gas pipe
with a lighted candle. Another man in a similar situation might have been
running what are called the gamut of emotions, but he was conscious of only one,
a dull despair.

*    *    *    *    *

Her manner, hitherto that of Florence Nightingale condoling with a wounded soldier,
took on the austerity of a governess who has discovered one of her charges in the
the act of raiding the jam cupboard.

*    *    *    *    *

To say that his conscience was clear would be inaccurate, for he did not have a
a conscience, but he had what was much better, an alibi.

*    *    *    *    *

"Gosh, how happy we're going to be."
"There won't be any more of your ex-fiancees dropping in and kissing you?"
"No, that's the lot."
"Good. One likes to know."

*    *    *    *    *

"You're one of those guys who can make a party just by leaving it. Its a great gift."

*    *    *    *    *