“But the Señor said” — began ’Nuncio pleadingly.
The clerk only nodded pleasantly toward the door and commenced to talk to the little stenographer.
Annuncio stumbled to the sidewalk and started slowly away. He thought dazedly of his long journey home on foot and of the sad news he must tell his wife. Someone gave him a peseta and bade him get a drink. He went to a nearby store and purchased a bottle of mezcal, stupidly wondering if the Señor would ever bring back his precious violin, now that the lottery ticket was no good. Surely so kind a man as the Señor would not keep a poor man’s property if he knew.
Thus sorrowfully musing, Annuncio wandered to the edge of town and took up the long way back to Eulalia. But now the road seemed strangely long to his tired feet. He began to resort to frequent drinks from the bottle. After a time he sat down to rest by the roadside. Some vehicle was coming from the city. Maybe they were coming after him to say that there had been some mistake. Or perhaps it was the mail coche to San Luis. Then he recognized the mayor’s equipage. Ah yes, ’Nuncio remembered this was the evening of the grand baile at Madero’s, and doubtless the Señor Corregidor was overtaking him on his way thither. And would the Señor be so kind as to give him a lift, being very tired with the long walk? Of a certainty the Señor would. ’Nuncio might get up on the seat with the driver.
Thankfully he did so, and the coche proceeded toward the Madero ranch, the hacienda next beyond his own humble adobe. Little by little ’Nuncio’s body relaxed, lulled by the easy rolling coche, and soon he forgot the troubles of the day, lost in a half-dream of near-forgotten melodies.
But suddenly, in front of them, through the gathering dusk of the autumn evening, a glorious, scarlet burst of flame leaped quivering into the air. Annuncio started up.
“Jesus Maria,” he said, dully, “our little plan!”
The Infernal Feminine
Young Stafford devoted a full hour to the note, and even then was unable to satisfy himself. It was the ninth draft that he finally decided to send, and he folded it and sealed the envelope with the air of a philosopher who realizes how far short of the perfect are our most earnest endeavors. The note read as follows:
Dear Miss Blair:
I have been in New York two months; just long enough to form a decision that it is for the most part an exceedingly over-praised institution. Then, last night, a friend took me to see “Winning Winona,” and the moment you appeared on the stage that decision was reversed.
I shall not apologize for the informality of this; if you are inclined to be offended it would be useless. I shall only say that I wish very much to have the pleasure of meeting you, and that, having studied you for two hours, I know you will at least be kind enough to accept my best and most tender regards and wishes.
Yours sincerely,
Now, despite this evidence to the contrary submitted in black and white, Arnold Stafford was a sensible youth. There comes a time in the life of every man when he feels an overwhelming impulse to send a note to a musical comedy soubrette; and it is no credit to him if he is too cowardly or too cautious to yield to it. And when the soubrette happens to be Betty Blair — well, have you ever seen her?
As for the merit of the note itself, it must be admitted that it was a rather curious performance. It had a curtness and brevity that was almost legal — which perhaps was an effect intended deliberately. Anyway, it must be remembered that Stafford was wholly without experience in the matter.
The important thing is, it produced results. It was the third morning after sending his note that Stafford found in his mail a gray, severe envelope. Tearing it open, he read as follows:
Dear Mr. Stafford — You may meet me — if you will — at the stage door after the performance on Friday evening.
Sincerely,
If Stafford had been a member of that gilded brotherhood which impedes the traffic of Broadway without any apparent purpose other than to prove that an animal with two legs is not necessarily a man, this seeming compliance on the part of Miss Blair would have filled him with suspicion. But as he was merely a promising young lawyer, with more or less of an excuse for existence, he was only pleased and a little surprised. As he attempted to convey to his tailor some idea of the importance of the occasion for which certain repairs were necessary, he realized that he was getting considerably more than he had dared to expect.
On Tuesday evening he went again to see “Winning Winona,” also, on Wednesday and Thursday. He was forced to miss the Wednesday matinée only by a business engagement, which it was impossible to postpone, and yet the dawning of Friday saw, if anything, an increase of his impatience and eagerness. That is what raised Stafford’s whim to the dignity of passion. An infatuation that can withstand four performances of a popular Broadway show is not a thing to be regarded lightly, as an invitation to supper or a wedding engagement. It approaches the divine.
As is entirely proper in such cases, Stafford harbored no serious intentions. He was not entirely unsophisticated, and he knew very well that one goes to supper with an actress just as he goes to dinner with an appetite, or to church with a Bible. It is true that he was finding it difficult to reconcile this approved viewpoint with his own tumultuous feelings and eager expectation, but he accounted for the difference on the charge of novelty, and gave his undivided attention to the arrangement of his toilet and the choice of a restaurant.
Friday’s performance of Broadway’s newest hit, though in reality sadly similar to all the others, seemed to Stafford to be invested with a particular charm and freshness. That was due to the fact that he took no notice of it whatever; his mind was entirely occupied with wild admiration of Betty Blair when she was on the stage, and restless impatience when she wasn’t. He felt a sort of pity mingled with superiority, for the rest of the audience, who had to be content with their seats in the fifth row — or the fifteenth, which was worse — and share the glances of the divine Betty with anyone who had two dollars and a distaste for music. Then, reflecting that such a sentiment hardly suited a blase man of the world — which role he had definitely decided to assume — he spent the entire third act in the lobby, smoking cigarettes and looking as tired as possible.
He carefully avoided all appearance of haste. As the audience emerged from the theater he leaned against a nearby pillar and surveyed them, individually and collectively, with a cold and cheerless eye. Then he sauntered leisurely around to the stage door — and noted with alarm that members of the company were already leaving. He approached the guardian of the door and addressed him in a voice of anxiety.
“Has Miss Blair come out yet?”
The man in uniform eyed him a moment impassively, then his face brightened up. “Miss Blair? What is your name, please.”
Stafford handed him a card, and he disappeared in the narrow hall. A minute passed — two — then out into the white blaze of the arc over the entrance came Miss Betty Blair, with a dainty step and an entrancing swish. As Stafford advanced to meet her, hat in hand, she looked up inquiringly, smiled sweetly and said, in a silvery April-shower voice:
“Mr. Stafford? I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Those persons who are inclined to regard Stafford unfavorably, from whatever viewpoint, would do well to remember that the lure of the actress has been felt by more than one man worthy of the name, from Louis the Fourteenth down — or up — to Richard Le Gallienne. Her only business is to be charming, her only care is to entertain, her only desire is to please; for the public, of course. And thrice happy is the man who is able, even for one brief hour, to monopolize those melting glances, those musical tones and those pretty gestures! Studied or ingenuous, it matters not; they are there, and they are irresistible. Besides, do we not hear the man at the next table tell his companion that “that is Betty Blair?”