"Gotta bit of news for yuh," began the girl, "that Abey Clout is one swell little press-agent."
"Yeh, he's a bright boy," vouchsafed MacAllister.
"Bright! Why, he's got the Singer Tower faded!He's booked me for a solo dance at Standish's on Broadway at a hundred and fifty per, lessn his commishun. Not that I didn't have it comin'," she added proudly.
Not being exactly of a lymphatic nature, or one to sit back and lazily luxuriate in a prospect, she sat forward blithely and both thrilled and shrilled at it. Besides the figures just mentioned there were perquisites. She had a code, which was more than some of her Madonna- faced rivals could boast, priding herself on always having "gone straight," but such a course has fine gradations, and reasonably untainted luxuries were to be had from all gauged as "easy marks," without too entangling a compromise.
"Congratulations are in order, Rosey."
"Aw, don't Rosey me any more. He's goin' ta bill me as Carlotta, 'The Divine Carlotta!' Canya beat it?"
Mr. MacAllister couldn't, and she continued.
"I'm the illigit'mate descendant of Mahomet, Abey says, some wop prophet, I guess—never heard him menshuned in the synagogue. But, dearie, 'the divine Carlotta!' Say, are you lissnen?"
"My homage, divine one."
Carlotta, for henceforth we must not incur her displeasure through addressing her by her earlier name, surveyed his cool, suavely-tailored length with some admiration.
