“Beatrice,” he announced, “there is a man outside who has heard you sing and who wants to be introduced.”
She took the card and her eyes opened wide.
“Do you know who he is?” Tavernake asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “He is a great producer of musical comedies. Let me think.”
She stood with the card in her hand. Some one else was singing now—an ordinary modern ballad of love and roses, rapture and despair. They heard the rising and falling of the woman's voice; the clatter of the dinner had ceased. Beatrice stood still thinking, her fingers clinching the card of Mr. Sidney Grier.
“You must bring him in,” she said to Tavernake finally.
Tavernake went outside.
“My sister will see you,” he remarked, with the air of one who brings good news.
Mr. Sidney Grier grunted. He was not used to being kept waiting, even for a second. Tavernake ushered him into the retiring room, and the other two musicians who were there stared at him as at a god.
“This is the gentleman whose card you have, Beatrice,” Tavernake announced. “Mr. Sidney Grier—Miss Tavernake!”