“At the Jollity.”
“Oh! then here’s our man”—for a Mephistophelian gentleman was passing at the moment. “Say, Rosenheim, who’s the new coryphée over there?”
Mephistopheles halted, looked at Jane and laughed, too. “Her name is Miss Marie le Marchant; but as she happened to be born in London she pronounces it Mahrie Lee Mahshuns, with the accent on the ‘Mahs.’ Anything else you would like to know?”
“Yes, I’m stuck on her! Where did you pick her up?”
“She’s a housemaid, or something of the sort. Came into money. Wants to knock ’em on the stige. The rest is easy.”
“Has she been with you long?” put in Claude, as their informant was the under-manager of the Jollity.
Mr. Rosenheim glanced at him. Sadler, he knew, had no interest in the girl, and the barrister did not quite possess the juvenile appearance that warranted such solicitude.
“She joined us just before Christmas. What’s up? Is she really worth a lot of ’oof?”
“I should imagine not,” laughed Bruce; and Mr. Rosenheim joined another group.