Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to be a millionaire.
"What are your rates?" she inquired.
"Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day."
"Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that."
"I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "But just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every other hotel we make special ones, however. Possibly you have not thought about it, but your name is worth something to us."
"Oh!" ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.
"Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrie flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and—although you may not believe it—patrons."
"Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious proposition in her mind.
"Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want to arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything will do for the summer—a mere figure—anything that you think you could afford to pay."
Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.