that king of weapons. Presently the big man drops the curtains and passes on.
The orchestra ceases playing suddenly, and an important voice can be heard loudly talking in one of the boxes farther down the aisle. No doubt some citizen entertains there some visitor to the town, and Miss Rosa leans back in her chair and smiles at some of the words she catches:
“Purest atmosphere—in the world—litmus paper all along—nothing hurtful—our city—nothing but pure ozone.”
The waiter returns for the tray and glasses. As he enters, the girl crushes a little empty pasteboard box in her hand, and throws it in a corner. She is stirring something in her glass with her hat-pin.
“Why, Miss Rosa,” says the waiter, with the civil familiarity he uses,—“putting salt in your beer this early in the night!”
