“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.’  Then she receive your message.  She don’t know where to reach you.  She can do nossing.  She is desolated!  She mus’ fly to the train.  She is ver’ sorry.  She hope that maybe the gentlemans will be in Baltimore nex’ week?  Yes?”

“You mean she can’t come to-night?”

“Yes, monsieur.  She cannot.  She are fill with regret.  She—­”

“Perhaps,” said my companion, recovering, “we can drive her to the train?”

The maid, however, did not seem to wish to discuss this point.  She shook her head and said: 

“Madame ver’ sorry she cannot come.”

“But I say,” repeated my companion, “that we shall be delighted to drive her to the train if she wishes.”

“She ver’ sorry,” persisted the maid negatively.

“Oh, I see,” he said.  “Very well.  Please say to her that we are sorry, too.”

“Yes, monsieur.”  The maid retired.

“I want something to eat,” I remarked as we passed down the long furniture-piled passage leading to the street.

“So do I. We have that table at Harvey’s.”

“I know; but—­”

“That’s a fact,” he put in.  “I mentioned her name.  We can’t very well go there without her.”

“And all dressed up like a pair of goats.”

“No.”

“There’s always the hotel.”

“I don’t want to go back there—­not now.”

“Neither do I. Let’s make it the Shoreham,” I suggested as we emerged upon the street.

“All right.”  Then, looking across the sidewalk, he added:  “There’s that damned taxi!”