Reynolds shook his head, and, wishing me a respectful good evening, withdrew.
Mr. Marx watched Reynolds leave the room and then shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Honest, but stupid. Well, now you’re in my charge, Morton, I must see whether I can’t amuse you somehow. Ever been to the theatre?”
I could not help a slight blush as I admitted that I had never even seen the outside of one.
Mr. Marx looked at me after my admission as though I were some sort of natural curiosity.
“Well, we’ll go if you like,” he said. “There’s a very good one here, I believe, for the provinces, and it will be a change for you.”
“It will make us very late, won’t it?” I ventured to say.
“Not necessarily. I suppose it will be over about half-past ten and the carriage can meet us at the door.”
I said no more, for fear that he would take me at my word and give up the idea of going. In a few minutes Mr. Marx called for his bill and settled it, and, glancing at his watch, declared that it was time to be off. The waiter called a hansom, and we drove through the busy streets, Mr. Marx leisurely smoking a fragrant cigarette, and I leaning forward, watching the hurrying throngs of people, some pleasure-seekers, but mostly just released from their daily toil at the factory or workshop.
It was a wet night and the streets seemed like a perfect sea of umbrellas. The rain was coming down in sheets, beating against the closed glass front of our cab and dimming its surface, until it became impossible to see farther than the horse’s head. I leaned back by Mr. Marx’s side with a sigh, and found that he had been watching me with an amused smile.