"For God's sake, quick—they're calling you!" cried Zillinger again, mopping his brow. Cordelia noticed Hartley's face—it stood out in the stronger glare from the footlights—and in it at that moment she seemed to read something for which she had been searching. She settled back in her chair.
"I can't come," she said simply.
Zillinger advanced as though to seize her bodily—he knew the pattering multitudinous voice of that vast stippled dragon and feared its caprices.
"They're keepin' it up for you—you got to!" he cried in desperation.
"They can keep it up till morning for all I care—I shall not come!"
Zillinger threw up his hands and rushed away, mopping his face and muffling his oaths with the same handkerchief.
Cordelia's hand sought Hartley's in the dusk of the half-lighted box.
"Bully!" was the only word he said, but she understood how much it meant, and it made her inordinately happy for all the rest of that night. She felt, in some way, that her life had approached its Great Divide.