“Sit down,” he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear.  Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.

“Well, I’ll be going, Barney,” said one, breaking away and so addressing the manager.  “See you this afternoon.”

“All right,” said the manager.

The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.

“Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?” asked the manager softly.

“Oh, no,” said Carrie.  “I would take anything to begin with.”

“I see,” he said.  “Do you live here in the city?”

“Yes, sir.”

The manager smiled most blandly.

“Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?” he asked, assuming a more confidential air.

Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural in his manner.

“No,” she said.

“That’s the way most girls begin,” he went on, “who go on the stage.  It’s a good way to get experience.”

He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive manner.

“I didn’t know that,” said Carrie.

“It’s a difficult thing,” he went on, “but there’s always a chance, you know.”  Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and consulted it.  “I’ve an appointment at two,” he said, “and I’ve got to go to lunch now.  Would you care to come and dine with me?  We can talk it over there.”

“Oh, no,” said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at once.  “I have an engagement myself.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, realizing that he had been a little beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away.  “Come in later.  I may know of something.”

“Thank you,” she answered, with some trepidation and went out.

“She was good-looking, wasn’t she?” said the manager’s companion, who had not caught all the details of the game he had played.

“Yes, in a way,” said the other, sore to think the game had been lost.  “She’d never make an actress, though.  Just another chorus girl—­that’s all.”

This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after a time.  He was of a more sedate turn of mind.  He said at once that there was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish.

“Chicago is no place to get a start,” he said.  “You ought to be in New York.”

Still she persisted, and went to McVickar’s, where she could not find any one.  “The Old Homestead” was running there, but the person to whom she was referred was not to be found.