“What is a jackass?”
He stopped and took my hand as if expecting an answer of great moment.
“A man who always tells the truth in this world—he is a jackass,” I replied.
I was a little irritated by the trying experiences we had been through. Perhaps that is why my answer savored so strongly of cynicism.
CHAPTER IX
Painful as had been our introduction to polite society, the reaction which followed it was scarcely less so. Next day we stayed indoors until evening, when we ventured out for a walk with fear and trembling lest the newspapers had already increased our fame and our mortification. The twilight of a cloudless autumn day was closing in upon the city, and the keen, bracing winds which sweep over the American metropolis from the sea brought the color to our faces. We walked down Broadway, now quite deserted, in silence, and as we were passing Wallack's Theatre Rayel stopped suddenly, and stood for a moment looking into the brightly lighted foyer. Stepping in, he beckoned me to follow. I immediately saw what had attracted his eye, for on an easel just inside the entrance was the portrait of our woman. On a placard below the picture was the name “Edna Bronson.” Our surprise was mingled with sad regret at seeing it playing a false part to serve the ends of an unscrupulous manager.
“Perhaps she is here! suddenly exclaimed Rayel.
“That is very unlikely,” I answered, “but we shall see.”
I bought tickets for the evening's performance and we hastened home, strangely elated, to dress for the play.