"Says to wait," he grunted when he came back.
Meanwhile more and more furniture had come out, menacing our shins and
our beautifully polished hats in passing, and leaving us less room in
which to stand.
We waited.
After ten minutes had passed, I remarked:
"I wish we had let the taxi go."
After twenty minutes I remarked:
"I always feel like an idiot when I have to wait at a stage door."
"I don't see why you do it, then," said he.
"And I hate it worse when I'm in evening dress. I hate the way the
actors look at us, when they come out. They think we're a couple of
Johnnies."
"And supposing they do?"
I do not know how long this unsatisfactory dialogue might have continued
had not some one come to the inside of the stage door and spoken to the
doorman, whereat he indicated us with a gesture and said:
"There they are."
At this a woman emerged. The light was dim, but I saw that she wore no
hat and had on an apron. As she came toward us we advanced.
"You wait for madame?" she asked, with the accent of a Frenchwoman.
"Yes."
"Madame receive your telegram only this afternoon," she said. "All week,
she say, she wait to hear. This morning she have receive a telegram from
Mr. Woods that say she mus' come to New York. She think you not coming,
so she say 'Yes.
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