"They say he is wild and dissipated, yet half the silly girls in town are in love with him. He's as vain as a peacock."
Booth, accustomed to free access to the theatre, paused near the entrance to the box and looked deliberately over the great crowd, his magnetic face flushed with deep emotion, while his fiery inspiring eyes glittered with excitement.
Dressed in a suit of black broadcloth of faultless fit, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet he was physically without blemish. A figure of perfect symmetry and proportion, his dark eyes flashing, his marble forehead crowned with curling black hair, agility and grace stamped on every line of his being—beyond a doubt he was the handsomest man in America. A flutter of feminine excitement rippled the surface of the crowd in the balcony as his well-known figure caught the wandering eyes of the women.
He turned and entered the door leading to the President's box, and Margaret once more gave her attention to the stage.
Hawk, as Dundreary, was speaking his lines and looking directly at the President, instead of at the audience:
"Society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old woman, you darned old sockdologing man-trap!"
Margaret winced at the coarse words, but the galleries burst into shouts of laughter that lingered in ripples and murmurs and the shuffling of feet.
