He spoke rather loftily of the Metropolitan Opera House, and very lightly of the Metropolitan Museum,—and gave Charlie Webster a sharp look when that amiable gentleman asked him what he thought of the Metropolitan Tower.
But he was at home in the theatre. He told them just what Maude Adams and Ethel Barrymore were like, and Julia Marlowe, and Elsie Ferguson, and Chrystal Herne, and all the rest of them. He spoke familiarly of Mr. Faversham as "Favvy," of Mr. Collier as "Willie," of Mr. Sothern as "Ned," of Mr. Drew as "John," of Mr. Skinner as "Otis," of Mr. Frohman as "Dan."
And when he said good night and reluctantly wended his way to the room at the end of the hall, round the corner of which the fierce October gale shrieked derisively, he left behind him a group enthralled.
"Isn't he a perfect dear?" cried Mrs. Pollock, clasping her hands.
"The most erudite man I have ever met," agreed Miss Miller ecstatically. "Don't you think so, Mr. Hatch?"
Mr. Hatch was startled. "Oh,—er—yes, indeed. Absolutely!" he stammered, and then looked inquiringly at his finger nails. He hoped he had made the proper response.
Charlie Webster ambled over to one of the windows and peered out into the whistling night.
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said he sententiously.
"What do you mean by that, Charlie?" inquired Flora Grady, at his elbow.
"Well, if it had been a pleasant night he'd have been up at Alix Crown's instead of here," said Charlie.