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"Sam," he said, "a word with you."

Sam strolled over, fanning himself with the script he was carrying.

"No use pitching into me, Duggie, old chap," he began, deprecatingly. "I'll teach them their job in time, but it's damned slow work."

"I don't want to pitch into you," was the prompt reply. "Is your chorus full up?"

"Abso-bally-lutely!"

Rosina's heart fell like a stone. Her hopes rose again, however, a moment later.

"Then just forget it," the author enjoined firmly. "Sam, old fellow, as a pal, couldn't you run another one in?"

"Oh, my God, Douglas!" the stage manager groaned. "Where is it? Let me know the worst!"

"The worst, in this case, is the best," was the cheerful rejoinder. "Sam, shake hands with Miss—er—Miss—er—"

"Miss Vonet," Rosina intervened. "How do you do, Mr. Sam? I hope you'll let me come into the chorus, and that you won't be as cross with me as you were with those people just now."

The stage manager shook hands, coldly at first but with increasing warmth. Rosina had looked at him.