"But I'm going there myself."
"The devil you are. Where are you?"
Stainton produced his ticket.
Holt glanced at it and shook his head.
"Too close to hear," he said. "But what's the difference? We've all heard the confounded thing so often——"
"I have not," said Stainton.
"Eh? What? But it's Madama Butterfly, you know—Oh, yes, of course: I forgot. Still, what'll interest you, once you get there, will be what interests everybody else—and that's not the stage and not the orchestra. Now, look here: I'm with the Newberrys, you know—the Preston Newberrys——"
"I don't know," said Stainton.
"Well, you will, my boy; you will. That's just the point. We'll call a taxi and motor there together—it's just a step to the Metropolitan—and then, after the first act, I'll come round to you and take you over to meet 'em. What do you say?"
Stainton said what he was expected to say, which was, of course, that he would be delighted to meet any friends of Holt, and so it befell that the two men went to the opera-house together and parted at the door only with the certainty of meeting soon again.