“I hope that you may,” Anna answered enigmatically. “In the first place, I have no objection to the posters, as they have no name on them, but I do not wish to appear at all upon the stage as ‘Alcide.’ If you engage me it must be upon my own merits. You are taking it for granted that I am ‘Alcide.’ As a matter of fact, I am not.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Earles said, “but this is rubbish.”
“Call it what you like,” Anna answered. “I can sing the songs ‘Alcide’ sang, and in the same style. But I will not be engaged as ‘Alcide’ or advertised under that name.”
Mr. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. He slapped his knee.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Of course, I remember now. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?”
Anna nodded.
“It was,” she admitted.
“You needn’t say a word more,” Mr. Earles declared. “I see the difficulty. The old fool’s been working on you through your sister to keep off the stage. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. Let me run you for six months. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. What do you say?”
“I agree,” Anna said coldly, “if you will make it three months.”
“Better say six,” Mr. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink.