Uncle Philip, for all his ripe experience, had never heard of Miss Caspar, and Father hadn’t either. Never been seen at the Gaiety or the Lyric. No wonder a star had had to be placed by the Management opposite the name of Miss Caspar to denote an explanatory footnote at the bottom of the programme.
“By special arrangement with the Royal Italian Opera House, Blackhampton.”
Ha! that explained it. Deep minds were in this. Merely one more stroke of genius on the part of Mr. Hollins. When Florence de Vere had broken her engagement at the eleventh hour in order to take part in the Beauchamp Season, to the dismay of all that was best in the life of the metropolis, what did Mr. Hollins do? Sit down and twiddle his thumbs, did he? Not so, my masters. He called for his coat with the beaver collar, and his new bowler hat from Mr. Lock, and he took a first-class ticket for the Royal Italian Opera House, Blackhampton.
“Not for the King of England, not me,” said the Lessee and Manager haughtily. “We open on Boxin’ Night with Aladdin, and the bills are printed.”
Oh, vain Lessee! Little he recked of the Napoleonic faculty of Mr. Hollins in combination with his cheque-book. Meetings of indignation were held in Blackhampton and its environs, but after all, the loss of the famous midland city was the gain of the great metropolis.
Miss Caspar had come, had been seen, had overcome.
“’Core!” roared the bloods in the stalls.
“’Core!” echoed the cads in the pit.
“’Core!” cried the young ladies in the dress circle.
“’Core!” yelled the members of nature’s nobility, cheek by jowl with the magnificent ceiling.