"Has not the curtain descended?" enigmatically.
"I don't see any curtain," said the Frenchman.
"No? But it's there." At the gate, however, once more she paused—to listen, to laugh.
"Was jetzt?" asked the mystified Berliner.
She only shrugged.
The orchestra, having played a few conventional selections after Dixie, had now plunged into Marching through Georgia.
As Sonia Turgeinov disappeared through the gate, the golden head surmounted by the "wonderful chapeau", bent toward the clean-cut, strong-looking face of the young man on the other side of the small table.
"It's awfully extravagant of you, Harry,—twenty roubles, a tip for those musicians. But it makes it seem like home, doesn't it?"
"Yes, darling," he answered.