The little matter of the corsets being settled, they sauntered through
the always diverting streets toward the office of Leopold Artheris,
manager of the Grand Opera House, and a very good friend of both girls.

They found him idle, in a bright, untidy office, lined with the pictures
of stage favourites, and with three windows open to the sun and air.

"You're placed, I think, Miss Girard?" said he, giving her a fat little
puffy hand. He was a stout, short man of fifty, with a bald spot showing
under a mop of graying curls, and a bushy moustache also streaked with
gray.

"If you call it placed," said Connie, grinning. "We open Monday in
Sacramento."

"Aha! But why Sacramento?"

"Oh, we've got to open somewhere, I suppose! Try it out on the dog, you
know!" Connie said, with a sort of bored airiness.

"And you, my dear?" said Artheris, turning toward Julia.

"She's come to see you about that amachure job," said Connie, reaching
over to grab a theatrical magazine from the desk, and running her eye
carelessly over its pages. Artheris's blandly smiling face underwent an
instant change. He elevated his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and nodded
with sudden interest.

"Oh--to be sure--to be sure! The performance of 'The Amazons' for the