"There are——It's Madama Butterfly to-night, I think the paper said?"
"Yessir. What part of the house do you want?"
"I don't know," said Stainton. "That's a good show, isn't it?"
The clerk was too well fitted for his business to smile at such a query. He had, besides, perception enough to discern something beyond the humorous in this broad-shouldered, grave man of anywhere from forty to fifty, who was evidently so strong in physique and yet so clearly helpless in the commonplaces of city-life.
"It's the best production of that opera for the whole season," the clerk made answer. "Caruso sings Pinkerton and——"
"So I understand," said Stainton, quickly.
The clerk nimbly shifted the quality of his information.
"And anyhow," he went urbanely on, "the Metropolitan audience is always a show in itself, you know. Everybody that is anybody is there; for a steady thing it beats the Horseshow in Madison Square Garden. You'll be wanting seats in the orchestra, of course?"
"One," corrected Stainton. "Shall I?" he added.
"Oh, yes. That is, if you're a stranger in New York. I——Pardon me, sir, but I suppose you are a stranger?"