Roland's blood boiled. Managers were plainly a dastardly crew.     

       “But what's the good of worrying,” went on Miss Verepoint, with a brave but hollow laugh. “Of course, it's wearing, having to wait when one has got as much ambition as I have; but they all tell me that my chance is bound to come some day.”      

       The intense mournfulness of Miss Verepoint's expression seemed to indicate that she anticipated the arrival of the desired day not less than sixty years hence. Roland was profoundly moved. His chivalrous nature was up in arms. He fell to wondering if he could do anything to help this victim of managerial unfairness. “You don't mind my going on about my troubles, do you?” asked Miss Verepoint, solicitously. “One so seldom meets anybody really sympathetic.”      

       Roland babbled fervent assurances, and she pressed his hand gratefully.     

       “I wonder if you would care to come to tea one afternoon,” she said.     

       “Oh, rather!” said Roland. He would have liked to put it in a more polished way but he was almost beyond speech.     

       “Of course, I know what a busy man you are——”      

       “No, no!”      

       “Well, I should be in to-morrow afternoon, if you cared to look in.”      

       Roland bleated gratefully.     

       “I'll write down the address for you,” said Miss Verepoint, suddenly businesslike.     

       Exactly when he committed himself to the purchase of the Windsor Theater, Roland could never say. The idea seemed to come into existence fully-grown, without preliminary discussion. One moment it was not—the next it was. His recollections of the afternoon which he spent drinking lukewarm tea and punctuating Miss Verepoint's flow of speech with “yes's”        and “no's” were always so thoroughly confused that he never knew even whose suggestion it was.     

       The purchase of a West-end theater, when one has the necessary cash, is not nearly such a complicated business as the layman might imagine. 

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