And Stilson did “follow it up.” That very night, toward the end of the performance he reappeared at the door of the “cork-room,” nervous but determined, and with all he had left of last week’s earnings in his pocket. “John” was most gracious as he admitted him and escorted him to a seat. The room was hazy with the smoke of cigars and cigarettes. Many men and several young women sat at the tables. A silver bucket containing ice and a bottle was a part of each group. There was a great pounding of feet on the floor overhead, the shriek and crash of the orchestra, the muffled roar of applause. All the young men were in evening clothes except Stilson who had come direct from the office. The young women were dressed for the street. Stilson guessed that they were “extras” as at that time the full force of the company must be on the stage.
The music ceased, the pounding of feet above became irregular instead of regular, and into the room streamed a dozen of the chorus girls in tights, with bare necks and arms and painted lips and cheeks. Their eyes, surrounded by pigment, looked strangely large and lustrous. “Just one glass, then we must go up and change.” And there was much “opening of wine” and laughter and holding of hands and one covert kiss in the shadow of an alcove where “John” could pretend not to see. Then the chorus girls rushed away to remove part of the powder, paint, and pigment and to put on street clothing. After a few minutes, during which Stilson watched the scene with a deepening sense of how out of place he was in it, the stage-door opened and Marguerite came in, dressed for the street in a pretty gray summer-silk with a gray hat to match. As she advanced through the smoke, several men stood, eager to be recognised. She smiled sweetly at each and hesitated. Stilson, his courage roused, sprang up and advanced boldly. “Good evening, Miss Feronia,” he said, his eyes imploring yet commanding. She looked at him vaguely, then remembered him.
“You are Mr. Penrose’s friend?” she said, polite but not at all cordial.
“Yes—my name’s Stilson,” he answered. “I was here last night.”
“Oh—Mr. Stilson of the World?”
Stilson bowed. She was radiant now. “I wrote you a note to-day,” she said. “It was so good of you.”
“Would you sit and let me order something for you?”
“Certainly. I want to thank you——”
“Please don’t,” he said, earnestly and with a hot blush. “I’d—I’d rather you didn’t remember me for that.”
“Something” in the cork-room meant champagne or a wine equally expensive—the management forbade frugality under pain of exclusion. Miss Feronia was thirsty and Stilson thought he had never before seen any one who knew how to raise a glass and drink.