The handful of young men by whom Tavernake was surrounded were of
a genus unknown to him. They were all dressed exactly alike,
they all seemed to breathe the same atmosphere, to exhibit the
same indifference towards the other loungers. One or two more
privileged passed in through the stage-door and disappeared.
Tavernake contented himself with standing on the edge of the
curbstone, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dark
overcoat, his bowler hat, which was not quite the correct shape,
slightly on the back of his head; his serious, stolid face
illuminated by the gleam from a neighboring gas lamp.
Presently, people began to emerge from the door. First of all,
the musicians and a little stream of stage hands.
Then a girl's hat appeared in the doorway, and the first of the
Atlas young ladies came out, to be claimed at once by her escort.
Very soon afterwards, Beatrice arrived. She recognized Tavernake
at once and crossed over to him.
"Well?" she asked.
"You looked very nice," he said, slowly, as he led the way down
the street. "Of course, I knew about your singing, but
everything else--seemed such a surprise."
"For instance?"
"Why, I mean your dancing," he went on, "and somehow or other you
looked different on the stage."
She shook her head.
"'Different' won't do for me," she persisted. "I must have
something more specific."
"Well, then, you looked much prettier than I thought you were,"
Tavernake declared, solemnly.
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