He bowed low over her hand and raised it gallantly to his lips.

“I rather think I am still in Arden myself,” he said.  “My dear, you have given me a treat such as I never expected to enjoy again in this world.  You made me forget I knew anything about plays or was seeing one.  You carried me off with you to Arden.”

“Did you really like the play?” begged Tony, shining-eyed at the praise of the great man.

“I liked it amazingly and I liked your playing even more amazingly.  Is it true that you are going on the stage?” He had dropped Arden now, gotten down to what he would have called brass tacks.  The difference was in his voice.  Tony sensed it vaguely and was suddenly a little frightened.

“Why, I—­I don’t know,” she faltered.  “I hope so.  Sometime.”

“Sometime is never,” he snapped.  “That won’t do.”

The Arden magic was quite gone by this time.  He was scowling a little and thrust out his upper lip in a way Tony did not care for at all.  It occurred to her inconsequentially that he looked a good deal like the wolf, in the story, who threatened to “huff and puff” until he blew in the house of the little pigs.  She didn’t want her house blown in.  She wished Uncle Phil would come.  She stooped to gather up her roses as if they might serve as a barricade between her and the wolf.  But suddenly she forgot her misgivings again, for Max Hempel was saying incredible things, things which set her imagination agog and her pulses leaping.  He was offering her a small role, a maid’s part, in one of his road companies.

“Me!” she gasped from behind her roses.

“You.”

“When?”

“To-morrow—­the day after—­next week at the latest.  Chances like that don’t go begging long, young lady.  Will you take it?”

“Oh, I wish I could!” sighed Tony.  “But I am afraid I can’t.  Oh, there is Uncle Phil!” she interrupted herself to exclaim with perceptible relief.

In a moment Doctor Holiday was with them, his arm around Tony while he acknowledged the introduction to the stage manager, who eyed him somewhat uncordially.  The two men took each the other’s measure.  Possibly a spark of antagonism flashed between them for an instant.  Each wanted the lovely little Rosalind on his own side of the fence, and each suspected the other of desiring to lure her to the other side if he could.  For the moment however, the advantage was all with the doctor, with his protecting arm around Tony.

“Holiday!” muttered Hempel.  “There was a Holiday once who married one of the finest actresses of the American stage—­carried her off to nurse his babies.  I never forgave that man.  He was a brute.”

Tony stiffened.  Her eyes flashed.  She drew away from her uncle and confronted the stage manager angrily.

“He wasn’t a brute, if you mean my father!” she burst out.  “My mother was Laura LaRue.”

“I know it,” grinned the manager, thoroughly delighted to have struck fire.  The girl was better even than he had thought.  She was magnificent, angry.  “That’s why I’m here,” he added.  “I just offered this young person a part in a practically all-star cast, touring the West.  Do you mind?” he challenged Doctor Holiday.