"Really, my dear Mrs. Dainton," he began softly, "what does it matter? We do not intend to remain here more than a moment."
Perhaps for some hidden reason of her own, Mrs. Dainton seemed to find pleasure in turning upon him suddenly.
"How do you know how long I may stay here? Perhaps I may wish to spend the afternoon here," she declared. "Some one has been smoking here, smoking vile, filthy cigars. Such things affect my voice. And what could I do without my voice? I couldn't act. I should be penniless. Victor, you must not let this happen again."
"I will do my best, Mrs. Dainton," replied Victor.
"Marky" Zinsheimer, covertly throwing away his cigar, rose and bowed before the English actress, while the footman stared in surprise, and Victor seemed aghast at the presumption.
"I beg pardon, Mrs. Dainton, it was I who smoked," said "Marky."
Mrs. Dainton surveyed him curiously through her lorgnette.
"Indeed! You should have known better. I really think you had better complain to the manager, Victor, about this person."
"My name is Zinsheimer," bowed "Marky," smiling amiably. "Well-known first-nighter in New York—go to all the theaters—maybe you've heard of me. I'm known everywhere along Broadway. Perhaps you may remember I bought the first box for your opening night last season. Yes, paid three hundred dollars for it, too," he added proudly, as an afterthought.
"Really?" repeated Mrs. Dainton, languidly. "Such things do not interest me in the least. I never think of the sordid details of business—I live only for my art."