“That’s all right,” she said, raising her superb shoulders after a special manner of her own.  “Now you shall take me to Sullivan, and he shall introduce us.  Any friend of dear old Sully’s is a friend of mine.  How do you like my new song?”

“What new song?” I inquired incautiously.

“Why, ‘Who milked the cow?’ of course.”

I endeavored to give her to understand that it had made an indelible impression on me; and with such like converse we went in search of Sullivan, while everyone turned to observe the unknown shy young man who was escorting Marie Deschamps.

“Here he is,” my companion said at length, as we neared the orchestra, “listening to the band.  He should have a band, the little dear!  Sullivan, introduce me to your cousin.”

“Charmed—­delighted.”  And Sullivan beamed with pleasure.  “Ah, my young friend,” he went on to me, “you know your way about fairly well.  But there! medical students—­they’re all alike.  Well, what do you think of the show?”

“Hasn’t he done it awfully well, Mr. Foster?” said Miss Deschamps.

I said that I should rather think he had.

“Look here,” said Sullivan, becoming grave and dropping his voice, “there are four hundred invitations, and it’ll cost me seven hundred and fifty pounds.  But it pays.  You know that, don’t you, Marie?  Look at the advertisement!  And I’ve got a lot of newspaper chaps here.  It’ll be in every paper to-morrow.  I reckon I’ve done this thing on the right lines.  It’s only a reception, of course, but let me tell you I’ve seen after the refreshments—­not snacks—­refreshments, mind you!  And there’s a smoke-room for the boys, and the wife’s got a spiritualism-room, and there’s the show in this room.  Some jolly good people here, too—­not all chorus girls and walking gents.  Are they, Marie?”

“You bet not,” the lady replied.

“Rosetta Rosa’s coming, and she won’t go quite everywhere—­not quite!  By the way, it’s about time she did come.”  He looked at his watch.

“Ah, Mr. Foster,” the divette said, “you must tell me all about that business.  I’m told you were there, and that there was a terrible scene.”

“What business?” I inquired.

“At the Opera the other night, when Alresca broke his thigh.  Didn’t you go behind and save his life?”

“I didn’t precisely save his life, but I attended to him.”

“They say he is secretly married to Rosa.  Is that so?”

“I really can’t say, but I think not.”

“What did she say to him when she went into his dressing-room?  I know all about it, because one of our girls has a sister who’s in the Opera chorus, and her sister saw Rosa go in.  I do want to know what she said, and what he said.”

An impulse seized me to invent a harmless little tale for the diversion of Marie Deschamps.  I was astonished at my own enterprise.  I perceived that I was getting accustomed to the society of greatness.