“And what are you going to do, Devlin?”
“Live,” said the emotional hairdresser splendidly.
“Hoho!” said Noll.
“I mean to live—to take the stage in the drama of life,” said the barber largely; and he swept his hand towards the pitchy reek of the slumbering universe. “There’s a great hairy soul in me, tearin’ to get out—and it’s above hair-cuttin’. I am moved with the spirit of art.” He hiccupped, apologized, and went on: “I have joined me life with the legitimate drama—I mean to dance the mighty fling of man’s destiny to the tune of a nightly orchestra. I go out to-morrow wid a theatrical company to play the immortal masterpieces of Mr. Sheridan, Doctor Goldsmith, and the Swan of Avon. And, by the gospels, Victoria May Alice goes with me.”
Noll whistled.
Devlin scowled:
“That’s so,” said he. “It’s an ignominious destiny she’s got a holt of—cleanin’ the boots of mediocrities and lodgers.... I’ve been christenin’ the great event all week wid the heavy man of the company—but I lost the fellow about Tuesday——”
Noll coughed:
“And—er—is Victoria May Alice to be your lawfully wedded wife, Devlin?”
“Well, sir—of course it would have been more dramatic not. I’ve struggled with the damned poetry in me; but, in case of the children comin’, I thought I’d have a commonplace corner in me destiny and the marriage certificate.” He leaned over confidentially. “Ye see, sir—no one in the profession need know.”