Luckily my timidity held me back until she had reached Forty-second Street; there she turned west and a few steps from Seventh Avenue entered the lobby of the Stuyvesant Theatre. I was close behind her as she approached the box office; I looked over her shoulder as she purchased two tickets in the orchestra for the performance of “Peaches and Cream” that night, and noted the numbers on the coupons.
At that moment came my inspiration. I waited till she had disappeared again into the street, then approached the ticket seller.
“One for tonight, orchestra.”
He turned to glance over the rack, pulled out a coupon and started to put it in an envelope. Meanwhile, I was studying the chart of the theatre under the slab of glass on the ledge.
“What row is it?” I inquired.
“Fourth. Aisle.”
“Got anything in the eleventh, near the centre?”
He nodded, after consulting the rack.
“Right here. Fine seat.” He pointed to the location on the chart. We were getting hot.
“I’d prefer the other side, if possible.”
He frowned impatiently and mumbled something I didn’t catch as he turned again to the rack. Out came another coupon; a quick glance showed me its number. A moment later, I had parted company with a two dollar bill and was emerging into the street with a ticket that called for the seat adjoining those purchased by her.
I didn’t go back to the office that evening; I wouldn’t even have gone home to dinner but for the necessity of changing my clothes. I forget what lie I told my wife, but it couldn’t have been a very good one, for my mind was entirely occupied with the question whether or not to wear a dress suit. I knew that the audience at the Stuyvesant was usually about half and half, and I finally decided on my new grey business sack, for I had no desire to appear in false colors. Anyway, hired dress suits are generally of antiquated model, and I knew her eye would detect it at a glance, accustomed as she was to such things. I wished to give myself every advantage possible.
I had a hard time deciding just what to write, and the idea came to me that it would be better to go down to the office first and use the typewriter; but in the end I went out to a stationary and cigar store for a newspaper wrapper with mucilage on the end and used that. Before I finally copied it, as plainly and neatly as possible, I tried fifty different ways of saying what I wanted to in the fewest words, and even then I wasn’t satisfied with it.
I was in an agony of suspense, and not disposed to sit around and talk with my wife till time to go, I went out for a walk. Then the thought struck me that something might happen on the subway to delay me, so I rushed to the station and took the first train downtown. I reached the theatre a little after seven and stood in the lobby till the doors opened. I was the first one seated.
Then I encountered my only difficulty. She had bought two tickets, adjoining mine on the left, but which one would she occupy? It was an even chance that she would occupy the seat next to mine. I felt certain that her companion would be some relative or woman friend, since she had bought the tickets herself. So I took the program from the arm of the seat next to mine and opened it at a page near the back, for I didn’t want her to see it before the show began, and I knew that during the first or second intermission she would look through the whole program. They always do. So I pasted the newspaper wrapper on which I had written my appeal in a page near the back. The brown paper stood out conspicuously against the white. I closed the program and replaced it with a feeling that if the thing didn’t work it wouldn’t be my fault. I had done my best.
I tried to amuse myself by watching the theatre fill up, but I was horribly restless and turned around constantly to see if she were coming. At last she would know my name! At last she would speak to me! For I assured myself that she couldn’t be so heartless as to ignore me. She couldn’t! As the time passed my restlessness increased to a torment of suspense.
A minute or two before curtain time she arrived. I was watching the aisle to the right, but she came unexpectedly down the other side and was already pushing her way past the row of knees to her seat before I saw her. My heart leaped with joy as I saw that she was in front; she would sit next to me, as I had hoped! Behind was her companion, a pleasant-faced lady of fifty-five or so, no doubt her mother, or possibly an aunt.
They had barely time to get seated and take off their wraps before the house darkened and the curtain rose. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her profile, delicate in its severity, and the soft rounded contour of neck and shoulders, her dark fine hair contrasting startlingly with the whiteness of her skin. I haven’t the remotest idea about the first act. I scarcely breathed — so close to her, almost touching her! There in front of us her breath was mingling with mine! And soon she would read my name. She would speak to me. I was a-quiver with excitement and hope. Would they never get through that foolishness on stage?
Then the curtain, applause, and the house was light again. She spoke to her companion; they discussed the performers. I was in a fever of impatience. They talked for so long that I feared the second act would begin before they finished. Finally she began turning the leaves of her program. She read, “What the Man Will Wear,” “The Golfer,” and “Here and There.” She skimmed over the advertisements, turning the pages more rapidly. I could feel myself trembling in my seat, and suddenly I was aware that she had reached it. She was reading the slip of paper I had pasted in her program. I bit my lips to keep myself steady. She read it a second time, a third. I felt, rather than saw, her swift glance. There was a silence, a rather long silence, and then her voice came:
“Really, this is rather clever.”
I turned. Yes, she was speaking to me! I swallowed hard and tired to answer, but couldn’t She saw, and smiled — a divine smile!
She spoke again:
“You wrote this? You put this here?”
I nodded, and stammered, “Yes. I did. Forgive me, but it was the only way.” Suddenly my voice came, and I continued swiftly: “No doubt you think it bold and in bad taste, but I have been trying for months to think of some way of meeting you. To one in my humble position the conventional channels were closed. I knew no one that could or would introduce me. I thought of calling on you, but of course you wouldn’t have seen me, and you would have been right. So I did this. It was the only way I could think of. I beg you not to be offended.”
I stopped, wondering if I had said too much or not enough. But I could see she was smiling; at least she wasn’t angry. She read the slip over again. I heard her murmur, “How amusing.” No, she wasn’t angry. Suddenly she turned to me:
“Really, I think you deserve — well, we’ll see. You deserve respect for your originality at least. Let’s see; tomorrow’s Thursday. Will you call in the morning at ten — between ten and eleven? Wait—” she smiled — “take this and use it as your card when you come.” She tore out the slip I had pasted in her program and handed it to me.
I tried to stammer my thanks; she waved them away smilingly and turned to speak to her companion, who had been regarding us in wondering curiosity. The lights began to go out for the second act. My heart was so full of elation I couldn’t sit through such a banal performance; besides, would it not be more delicate not to remain? She might feel obliged to converse with me; might think I expected it; it would be presumptuous. And I wanted to get away to think it over.
I took my hat and coat and edged my way to the aisle. In the outer lobby I put on my coat and hat, took the slip of brown paper, read it over once more and folded it; but before placing it in my pocket, I gaily carried it to my lips. The doorman, standing nearby, stared at me in amazement. Perhaps he would have been still more amazed if he had know what was written on it: