Signorina Caravaggio immediately said a few guttural words in German to Professor Frühlingsvogel, a few limpid words in Italian to Signor Ricardo a few crisp words in French to Madame Villenauve, a nervous but rather attractive little woman with piercing black eyes. The singers of other languages did not wait to be informed; they joined the general stampede toward the ravishing paradise of midday breakfast, and as the last of them vacated the lobby, the principals no whit behind the humble members of the chorus in crowding and jamming through that doorway, Bobby breathed a sigh of relief. Only the Signorina was left to him, and Bobby hesitated just a moment as it occurred to him that, perhaps, a more personal entertainment was expected by this eminent songstress. Biff Bates, however, relieved him of his dilemma.
“While you’re gone down to see the boys at the Idlers’ Club,” said Biff, “I’m going to take Miss Carry—Miss—Miss—”
“Caravaggio,” interrupted the Signorina with a repetition of a laugh which had convinced Bobby that, after all, she might be a singer, though her speaking voice gave no trace of it.
“Carrie for mine,” insisted Biff with a confident grin. “I’m going to take Miss Carrie out to lunch some place where they don’t serve prunes. I guess the Hotel Spender will do for us.”
Bobby surveyed Biff with an indulgent smile.
“Thanks,” said he. “That will give me time to see what I can do.”
“You take my advice, Mr. Burnit,” earnestly interposed the Signorina. “Don’t bother with your friends. Go and see the manager of the Orpheum and ask him about that open date. Ask him if he thinks it wouldn’t be a good investment for you to back us.”
Biff, the conservative; Biff, whose vote was invariably for the negative on any proposition involving an investment of Bobby’s funds, unexpectedly added his weight for the affirmative.
“It’s a good stunt, Bobby. Go to it,” he counseled, and the Caravaggio smiled down at him.
Again Bobby laughed.