Men and women in correct evening dress stood about in groups and chatted with an expectant air, as if some one of consequence was yet to arrive. Soft lights glowed in the ballroom, and there was good music.
The revellers were beginning to consult their programs, and in less than five minutes I would be alone in the lobby. I felt a sadness steal upon me, and I began to wonder where I was, when, lo! who should come downstairs but Martin Luther.
My heart leaped. He was clad in khaki and leather leggins, and carried his cowboy hat in his hand.
“Well, so you’re back again. What do you think of this?” said he, by way of greeting.
“It is like a scene in fairyland,” I replied. “What does it mean, and who are all these people? What hotel is this?”
“Don’t you know any of ’em?” he asked.
“No, not one,” I replied.
“Well, some of them are the main guys, an’ many of ’em are just carpenters, plumbers, steam-fitters, steam-shovel men and powder men, and the washed-out, conceited-looking guys are $125 doctors and clerks. They were all here in your time, but they didn’t buck up to this gait then.”
“But what hotel is this?” I asked.
“Why, it’s the Tivoli, and this is the Tivoli Club that’s dancing. They were just going to start this building when you were here two years ago.”