A new grace invested his every gesture; a new
sonorousness rang in his voice; a simple and manly pomposity marked
his very walk as he passed from curio to curio. And when he fearlessly
handled the box of rats and hammered upon it with cool insouciance, he
beheld--for the first time in his life--a purl of admiration eddying in
Marjorie's lovely eye, a certain softening of that eye. And then Verman
spake and Penrod was forgotten. Marjorie's eye rested upon him no more.
A heavily equipped chauffeur ascended the stairway, bearing the message
that Mrs. Levy awaited her son and his lady. Thereupon, having devoured
the last sound permitted (by the managers) to issue from Verman, Mr.
Levy and Miss Jones departed to a real matinee at a real theatre, the
limpid eyes of Marjorie looking back softly over her shoulder--but only
at the tattooed wild boy. Nearly always it is woman who puts the irony
into life.
After this, perhaps because of sated curiosity, perhaps on account of a
pin famine, the attendance began to languish. Only four responded to
the next call of the band; the four dwindled to three; finally the
entertainment was given for one blase auditor, and Schofield and
Williams looked depressed. Then followed an interval when the band
played in vain.
About three o'clock Schofield and Williams were gloomily discussing
various unpromising devices for startling the public into a renewal of
interest, when another patron unexpectedly appeared and paid a cent for
his admission.
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