“I don't want it.”
“Yes sir; but it's a little raw to-day.” He leaped down into the orchestra from the high stage, striking his knee upon a chair with violence, but, pausing not an instant for that, came running up the aisle1 carrying the overcoat. “You might want it after you get out into the air, Mr. Potter. I'm sure Mr. Tinker or Mr. Canby won't mind taking charge of it for you until you feel like putting it on.”
“Lord! Don't make such a fuss, Packer. Put it on me—put it on me!”
He extended his arms behind him, and was enveloped2 solicitously3 and reverently4 in the garment.
“Confound him!” said Potter good-humouredly, as they came out into the lobby. “It is chilly5; he's usually right, the idiot!”
Turning from Broadway, at the corner, they went over to Fifth Avenue, where Potter's unconsciousness of the people who recognized and stared at him was, as usual, one of the finest things he did, either upon the stage or “off.” Superb performance as it was, it went for nothing with Stewart Canby, who did not even see it, for he walked entranced, not in a town, but through orchards6 in bloom.
If Wanda Malone had remained with him, clear and insistent7 after yesterday's impersonal8 vision of her at rehearsal9, what was she now, when every tremulous lilt of the zither-string voice, and every little gesture of the impulsive10 hands, and every eager change of the glowing face, were fresh and living, in all their beautiful reality, but a matter of minutes past? He no longer resisted the bewitchment; he wanted all of it. His companions and himself were as trees walking, and when they had taken their seats at a table in the men's restaurant of a hotel where he had never been, he was not roused from his rapturous apathy11 even by the conduct of probably the most remarkable12 maitre d'hotel in the world.
“You don't git 'em!” said this personage briefly13, when Potter had ordered chops and “oeufs a la creole” and lettuce14 salad, from a card. “You got to eat partridge and asparagus tips salad!”
And he went away, leaving the terrible Potter resigned and unrebellious.
The partridge was undeniable when it came; a stuffed man would have eaten it. But Talbot Potter and his two guests did little more than nibble15 it; they neither ate nor talked, and yet they looked anything but unhappy. Detached from their surroundings, as they sat over their coffee, they might have been taken to be three poetic16 gentlemen listening to a serenade.
After a long and apparently17 satisfactory silence, Talbot Potter looked at his watch, but not, as it proved, to see if it was time to return to the theatre, his ensuing action being to send a messenger to procure18 a fresh orchid19 to take the place of the one that had begun to droop20 a little from his buttonhold. He attached the new one with an attentive21 gravity shared by his companions.
“Good thing, a boutonniere,” he explained. “Lighten it up a little. Rehearsal's dry work, usually. Thinking about it last night. Why not lighten it up a little? Why shouldn't an actor dress as well for a company of strangers at a reception? Ought to make it as cheerful as we can.”
“Yes,” said Tinker, nodding. “Something in that. I believe they work better. I must say I never saw much better work than those people were doing this morning. It was a fine rehearsal.”
“It's a fine company,” Potter said warmly. “They're the best people I ever had. They're all good, every one of them, and they're putting their hearts into this play. It's the kind of work that makes me proud to be an actor. I am proud to be an actor! Is there anything better?” He touched the young playwright22 on the arm, a gesture that hinted affection. “Stewart Canby,” he said, “I want to tell you I think we're going to make a big thing out of this play. It's going to be the best I've ever done. It's going to be beautiful!”
From the doorway23 into the lobby of the hotel there came a pretty sound of girlish voices whispering and laughing excitedly, and, glancing that way, the three men beheld24 a group of peering nymphs who fled, delighted.
“Ladies stop to rubber at Mr. Potter,” explained the remarkable headwaiter over the star's shoulder. “Mr. Potter, it's time you got marrit, anyhow. You git marrit, you don't git stared at so much!” He paused not for a reply, but hastened away to countermand
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