Doré, who thus found herself, to her vexation, sailing under her own colors, said, with a pleading look:
"Don't give me away, will you? It's just a lark, and," she added lower, "don't call me Miss Baxter!"
"A stage name, eh?"
"Splendid one—Trixie Tennyson. Doesn't that sound like a head-liner?" she added confidentially, in the low tone in which the conversation had been conducted.
Busby repeated the name, chuckling to himself, yielding to his sense of humor. "All right! Now, girls, come on!"
"But what shall we call him?"
"Call him anything you like ... after the soup!" said Busby, laughing. "Remember! he's here to be amused!... Have any of you girls changed your names since I saw you last?... No?... Then I know them!..." He told them off, counting with his fingers: "Adèle Vickers, Georgie Gwynne—it used to be Bronson last year—"
"It never was!" exclaimed a petite Irish brunette, with a saucy smile and a roguish eye: "Baron—"
"I'll give you a better one: Georgie Washington!" continued Busby. "Why not? Fine!... A press-agent would charge for that!... I see an inch of nose, a gray eye and a brown cheek under an avalanche of hat—must be Viola Pax!"
"Violetta, please!" said a southern type with soft consonants.