“Well, Carlotta is unusually jealous,” said Graham, with a little chuckle. “I suppose it is because she is suspicious of me. Thinks I may get stuck on the new face, you understand, old fellow.”
“Carlotta should know the world by this time, if any woman ever knew it,” said Everett, scowling. “Does she imagine you are going to dance attendance upon her forever?”
“If she does, she’ll be mistaken,” said Graham, decidedly, “and as for my new singer, Ila de Parloa, she had better not meddle with her. The girl is as pure and unsophisticated as she is beautiful, and, bad as I am, I admire virtue in a woman.”
“The most of us can,” said Everett, slowly; “but, by the way, what is the beautiful Ila’s right name? ’Pon honor, Clayte, I’ll never tell it.”
“Her name is Marion Marlowe,” was the manager’s answer, “but, of course, for business purposes, we shall stick to ‘Ila.’”
CHAPTER II.
A JEALOUS WOMAN.
The audience had dispersed and the auditorium of the great Broadway Theatre was enveloped in darkness, but Carlotta, the prima donna of the company, was still pacing back and forth in her disordered dressing-room.
She was a handsome woman, of the ripe, sensual type. Her eyes were wide and far apart, like a panther’s; her nose aquiline, and her lips red and voluptuous. As she walked excitedly back and forth she threw her gaudy garments aside, leaving only a trailing skirt of rich white silk and a bodice of lace falling low on her shoulders.
“What do you mean by it, anyway? Am I to be eclipsed entirely? Is Carlotta to be put in the background and sneered at by the people, while that little country girl is standing in the calcium?”