Shall we go back? Paul demanded, hoping they would refuse.
. . . is certainly an artist.
Naturally, Campaspe replied to Paul.
Naturally, was Consuelo's psittaceous comment.
Shall I wait for you, Paul dear? Vera inquired tremulously.
Certainly not, her husband growled. Come along.
At the stage-door, however, they were halted by a human hulk, with a black cigar between its teeth, which informed them that never, by no means, I should say not, could they set foot inside the theatre. As a concession to their obviously plausible appearance he was good enough to add, Rules.
But why? Campaspe insisted. What are the rules for?
Say! Where d'ya tink y'are? At de Bee-lasco? Why? Cause yer might be a heel from de Police Gazette back here to pick up de low-down, or yer might be . . . Say! How de hell do I know who y'are?
Why, the idea! Vera cried, giggling nervously.
Well, we'll wait for him here, Campaspe decided, the weather being propitious enough to make this possible, and she pointed to a long, wooden bench against the wall, on a board above which had been pasted advertisements of and testimonials to various teams and acts. Presently Nora Bayes emerged, a dog in her arms and a coloured maid at her heels.
