Mathison discovered that he was now free to walk about as he pleased, so long as he did not amble in the direction of the dressing-rooms. He anchored himself by the wall, from where he could see all who came down the narrow iron staircase. The draughty, musty, painty odors were to him like perfumed amber from Araby.
By and by two women came down. They went past Mathison without taking any notice of him. They were followed shortly by a man whom Mathison recognized as the conceited ass who made love to Miss Farrington in the play.
A row of lights overhead went out. The stage was now in a kind of twilight. I wonder if there is a sadder place than a stage when the actors have left it to the tender mercies of scene-shifters, carpenters, and electricians? To Mathison it was only the door to Ali Baba's cave.
At length—thirty minutes, to be exact—a woman came down the stairs slowly. A veil was wrapped about her face and hair. But Mathison would have recognized that sable coat anywhere. He stepped forward shakily and took off his cap.
"I suppose it's still snowing outside?" casually.
"What we sailors call thick weather." No questions; just an ordinary, every-day query about the weather. No confusion. "You are not afraid to shake hands?"
"I don't know just what to do."
"Oh, I'd return the hand." His laughter rocked the lurking echoes above.
And something in that laughter made her afraid of him, of herself.