"Ha!" he said.
"Well, Dad?"
"Well, my dears, it has been whispered to me——Mind, this is to go no further; you mustn't mention this. I was told in confidence."
"Yes, father, yes? We won't breathe a word."
"Well, I was told in confidence"—he puffed placidly—"that the Theatre Royal is—changing hands!"
They were a little slow. "Changing hands?"
"I'm told that Mobsby is likely to give it up. I hear that in a few months' time the Royal may be run by some other manager—a manager who, one may say without being unduly sanguine, is sure to be more enterprising, for new brooms sweep clean."
"Ah!" said Bee, "you think the opera will have another chance there?"
"Oh, oh!" cried Hilda.
"Think?" His expression was gay, his manner important, there was even a tremor of triumph in his tone. "Think? Don't you see for yourself what it means? My dear, women are very dense in practical matters, really—your poor mother, God bless her, was just the same. Don't you see that it is one of the best things that could have happened for the opera? I'm not sure, I'm not by any means sure, that it isn't quite the best thing. Remember who I am. I'm somebody here; not rich, far from it, but in my way—in the little world of Beckenhampton-a personage. I may say that, I think?—I don't want to flatter myself, but 'in my way, in the little world of Beckenhampton, a personage'?"