The play was one of those dazzling effects of lights and legs, as Torrence expressed it, with little or nothing beside, and I soon observed that a pretty little soubrette was the principal attraction. Before the second act was over, an attendant was summoned and despatched with a five pound bill, and an order for the prettiest basket of flowers to be bought, which at the first opportunity found its way upon the stage. At times it made me sick to see the money my brother wasted, but I was a more puppet in his keeping, and could do nothing to deter him. I fully expected he would be going to the green room after the performance for an introduction, but to my amazement he did nothing of the kind, and instead we got into our carriage, and driving to a fashionable restaurant, had supper.
"And why did you throw away your money on those flowers?" I asked him, lingering over a bottle of Pomard.
"Do you call that throwing money away? Why the poor little thing looked as if she needed all the encouragement she could get. I think of leaving an order with the florist to-morrow to send her half a dozen every night. Take them in from different parts of the auditorium, you know, so that she will never suspect they came from the same person."
"And you won't send your card?"
"Decidedly not!"
"And you don't want her to know it is you?"
"Decidedly not!"
"Have you taken leave of your senses?"
"Decidedly not! Why, Gurt, don't you know it would give her a lot more pleasure to think she was a general favorite than a special one?"
"Decidedly not!" I answered, taking up his cue, "any girl would rather—but no, on further consideration, I believe you're right." And it seemed to me that Torrence was always right.