"Oh, Marion!" he gasped, "suppose he should? He won't
though," he added, but eying her eagerly and inviting
contradiction.

"He will," she answered, stoutly, "if he reads it."

"The other managers read it," Carroll suggested, doubtfully.

"Yes, but what do they know?" Marion returned, loftily. "He
knows. Charles Wimpole is the only intelligent actor-manager in
London."

There was a sharp knock at the door, which Marion in her
excitement had left ajar, and Prentiss threw it wide open with an
impressive sweep, as though he were announcing royalty: "Mr.
Charles Wimpole," he said.

The actor-manager stopped in the doorway bowing gracefully, his
hat held before him and his hand on his stick as though it were
resting on a foil. He had the face and carriage of a gallant of
the days of Congreve, and he wore his modern frock-coat with as
much distinction as if it were of silk and lace. He was
evidently amused. "I couldn't help overhearing the last line,"
he said, smiling. "It gives me a good entrance."

Marion gazed at him blankly: "Oh," she gasped, "we--we--were just
talking about you."

"If you hadn't mentioned my name," the actor said, "I should
never have guessed it. And this is Mr. Carroll, I hope."