"Rosetta Rosa's coming, and she won't go quite everywhere--not quite!
By the way, it's about time she did come." He looked at his watch.

"Ah, Mr. Foster," the divette said, "you must tell me all about that
business. I'm told you were there, and that there was a terrible
scene."

"What business?" I inquired.

"At the Opera the other night, when Alresca broke his thigh. Didn't
you go behind and save his life?"

"I didn't precisely save his life, but I attended to him."

"They say he is secretly married to Rosa. Is that so?"

"I really can't say, but I think not."

"What did she say to him when she went into his dressing-room? I know
all about it, because one of our girls has a sister who's in the Opera
chorus, and her sister saw Rosa go in. I do want to know what she
said, and what he said."

An impulse seized me to invent a harmless little tale for the
diversion of Marie Deschamps. I was astonished at my own enterprise. I
perceived that I was getting accustomed to the society of greatness.

"Really?" she exclaimed, when I had finished.

"I assure you."