a silly notion--don't tell her I said this, Carlie--about Rosetta
Rosa. Says she's unlucky--Rosa, I mean. Wanted me to warn Smart
against engaging her. Me! Imagine it! Why, Rosa will be the making of
this opera season! She's getting a terrific salary, Smart told me."

"It's awfully decent of you to offer me a seat," I began to thank him.

"Stuff!" he said. "Cost me nothing." A clock struck softly.
"Christopher! it's half-past twelve, and I'm due at the Diana at
twelve. We're rehearsing, you know."

We went out of the club arm in arm, Sullivan toying with his
eye-glass.

"Well, you'll toddle round to-night, eh? Just ask for my box. You'll
find they'll look after you. So long!"

He walked off.

"I say," he cried, returning hastily on his steps, and lowering his
voice, "when you meet my wife, don't say anything about her
theatrical career. She don't like it. She's a great lady now. See?"

"Why, of course!" I agreed.

He slapped me on the back and departed.

It is easy to laugh at Sullivan. I could see that even then--perhaps
more clearly then than now. But I insist that he was lovable. He had
little directly to do with my immense adventure, but without him it