“Oh, but I shan’t swallow that,” said Trampy, in his exasperation. “We shall see! I have my rights. I shall enforce them!”
“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” said Lily. “When a thing has to be done, it gets done without all that talk: look at Jimmy!”
“Hang your Jimmy!”
“It’s not a question of my Jimmy,” retorted Lily, “but of my money. I should simply have flung it away! You, do a thing like that! You risk your skin! Rot!”
Trampy, in his rage, would have boxed Lily’s ears, had it not been for her nails, which she held ready to scratch his face, and he went out fuming. He ran off to the agents, but there was nothing for him. And yet Trampy knew or, at least, supposed that they must want an opposition show to “Bridging the Abyss.” They must, surely! Why, everywhere, in all the great centers, every music-hall had its rival opposite or beside it: everywhere, each establishment strove to inflict empty houses upon its rival by offering more sensational or more breakneck tricks. At the Kaiserin, the rival of the Kolossal, they were, without a doubt, looking for something to set against “Bridging the Abyss” and they had nothing, or else Trampy would have known it: among pros such matters were always known long beforehand. Oh, Trampy was prepared to do anything to escape his wife’s sarcasm!
And, one evening, behold Trampy returning in triumph to the café where Lily awaited him:
“I knew it!” he cried. “I knew it wouldn’t go like that!”
“Well, what?” asked Lily. “Have you got a number thirty-seven? Thirty-eight? A fresh conquest? Something quite out of the common?”
“Laugh away, Lily! That son of a gun shall hear me talked about yet, by Jove! And everybody else will, too. You must be prepared for anything, Lily, when you marry an artiste!”
“Why, what’s happened?” asked Lily, much surprised.