"Where can I buy a ticket for to-night's opera?" he enquired. The page ceased his vocal rumble and looked up with wounded reproof at the tall cause of this interruption. "News-stand," he said, and immediately escaped to resume the summons of "Mr. Kerghrrr." Stainton followed the direction that the page's eyes had indicated. Over the booth where newspapers might be purchased for twice the price that he would have to pay for them in the street, fifteen yards away, he saw a sign announcing the fact that opera and theatre tickets were here for sale. He approached, somewhat awkwardly, and, over a protruding ledge of red and blue covered magazines on which were portrayed the pink and white prettiness of impossibly insipid girls, confronted a suave clerk, who appeared tremendously knowing. "You have tickets for the opera?" asked Stainton. "Yessir." "For the Metropolitan Opera House?" "Yessir. How many?" "There are----It's _Madama Butterfly_ to-night, I think the paper said?" "Yessir. What part of the house do you want?" "I don't know," said Stainton. "That's a good show, isn't it?" The clerk was too well fitted for his business to smile at such a query. He had, besides, perception enough to discern something beyond the humorous in this broad-shouldered, grave man of anywhere from forty to fifty, who was evidently so strong in physique and yet so clearly helpless in the commonplaces of city-life. "It's the best production of that opera for the whole season," the clerk made answer. "Caruso sings _Pinkerton_ and----" "So I understand," said Stainton, quickly. The clerk nimbly shifted the quality of his information. "And anyhow," he went urbanely on, "the Metropolitan audience is always a show in itself, you know. Everybody that is anybody is there; for a steady thing it beats the Horseshow in Madison Square Garden. You'll be wanting seats in the orchestra, of course?" "One," corrected Stainton. "Shall I?" he added. "Oh, yes. That is, if you're a stranger in New York. I----Pardon me, sir, but I suppose you are a stranger?" "Very much of a stranger." "Then I can recommend this seat, sir." The clerk disappeared behind a hanging vine of magazines more glorious than the slopes of the Cote d'Or in autumn, and immediately reappeared with a ticket projecting from a narrow envelope. "Fifth row," he said. "Second from the aisle. Not on the side with the brasses, either. You can see all the boxes from it." Jim Stainton's heavy, iron-grey eyebrows came together in a puzzled meeting. Under them, however, his iron-grey eyes twinkled. "Thank you," he said; "but I want to see the stage, you know." "Oh," the clerk reassured him, "of course you'll see the stage perfectly." Stainton accepted the ticket. "Very well," he said. "Take it out of that."