Stainton decided that he would go to the Metropolitan Opera House that night to hear Madama Butterfly. He did not care for operatic music, but he hoped to learn. He did not expect to meet anyone he knew, but he trusted that he might come to know someone he met. There was, at any rate, no spot in the Great American Desert, where he had found his fortune, quite so lonely as this crowded lobby of the Astor, the hotel at which he was now stopping—so he decided upon the Metropolitan and Madama Butterfly.
A page was passing, uttering shrill demands for a man whose name seemed to be "Mr. Kerrghrrr." Stainton laid a large, but hesitating, hand upon the boy's shoulder.
"Where can I buy a ticket for to-night's opera?" he enquired.
The page ceased his vocal rumble and looked up with wounded reproof at the tall cause of this interruption.
"News-stand," he said, and immediately escaped to resume the summons of "Mr. Kerghrrr."
Stainton followed the direction that the page's eyes had indicated. Over the booth where newspapers might be purchased for twice the price that he would have to pay for them in the street, fifteen yards away, he saw a sign announcing the fact that opera and theatre tickets were here for sale. He approached, somewhat awkwardly, and, over a protruding ledge of red and blue covered magazines on which were portrayed the pink and white prettiness of impossibly insipid girls, confronted a suave clerk, who appeared tremendously knowing.
"You have tickets for the opera?" asked Stainton.
"Yessir."
"For the Metropolitan Opera House?"
"Yessir. How many?"