"I hope you don't expect a tip," she said, laughing.
"I do," he said, coming closer, and speaking in a voice that was not for the ear of the chap eron. "I want a tip on this—do you really act?"
She looked at him steadily.
"Once," she said, "when I was sixteen, I ap peared in an amateur play at school. It was my first and last appearance on the stage."
"Thanks, lady," remarked Mr. Magee in imi tation of the bell-boy he was supposed to be. He sought number seven. There he made himself again presentable, after which he descended to the office.
Mr. Bland sat reading the New York paper before the fire. From the little card-room and the parlor, the two rooms to the right and left of the hotel's front door, Quimby had brought forth extra chairs. He stood now by the large chair that held Professor Bolton, engaged in con versation with that gentleman.
"Yes," he was saying, "I lived three years in Reuton and five years in New York. It took me eight years—eight years to realize the truth."
