“Company’ll have to go into apartments, that’s all,” he said, in his airy, offhand way to Mr. Bodwin, the proprietor and manager of the newly erected Crumplesea Opera House. “Dante won’t like that, of course, for he’s struck a rich thing in getting the provincial rights to the ‘Beauty of Gotham,’ and he’s putting on no end of side, and insisting on all the members of the company putting up at hotels, instead of lodging houses and the like. It’s hard on some of ’em--especially the low-salaried ‘utility people’--but he’s in a position to dictate, and it’s that or nothing for most of ’em, poor devils! I dare say there’ll be many of ’em who’ll be as pleased as Punch over the mishap; but if the Montague doesn’t raise the roof, when she learns that she will have to go into apartments, you can write me down as an ass.” “Dear me! is she a very violent person, then?” queried the manager apprehensively. “We are a very circumspect people here in Crumplesea, Mr. Billet, although the place is gaining renown as a seaside resort, and you quite alarm me with these hints.” “Oh, don’t let that worry you. She won’t be in the town twenty-four hours before every man in it is gone on her and willing to swear that she’s the sweetest thing that ever happened. If ever she manages to get a hearing in London--and she will yet; she’s not the kind of woman to be kept in the provinces forever--somebody’s title will come her way, I warrant you. And it won’t be a mere empty title, either; it will be one well backed up with capital--trust her for that! She’s a highflyer, and she comes from a country where they know how to get full value for everything. Wait till she gets to London, that’s all. She’s not too old to hook a fish worth landing, even yet.” “How old is she, Mr. Billet?” “Ask me something easier! On the stage she looks about twenty, on the street about--oh, well, I’m too old a hand at this business to be caught belying the posters,” returned Mr. Billet, with a laugh and a wink. “But look here; draw your own conclusions. She owns up to five and twenty, and when a woman does that--especially a woman in the theatrical profession--you can safely add anything from five to ten to her figures, and not feel that you are doing her any injustice. Now then, show me the way to the post office, will you? I want to send a wire to Dante to prepare him for this little muddle about the accommodations; and, look here, Mr. Bodwin! take a fool’s advice and don’t you waste your time in going off your head over fair Rosalind when you see her--though, I dare say, you will, for all that; she seems born to make men do it wherever she goes--but just remember that you haven’t the ghost of a chance; and wouldn’t have if you owned all Crumplesea. Remember, I have warned you.” “Thank you, but it is useless warning. I am already a married man.” Mr. Billet looked up into his face, and laughed. “So was Anthony,” he said. “Now come and show me the way to the post office.”