He stood a moment in the wind. Behind his door he heard the music playing to itself....
He walked for a long time that afternoon—along the dull streets, staring at brick houses and at children running past him on brick walks.... It was all brick walks and long rows of houses—and dulness; he could not reach Rosalind. He could buy clothes for her—more bricks... and there was the music—his mind halted—and went on.
Music made her happy—like that! He bought an evening paper and studied it awhile, standing by the newsstand, with the cars and taxis shooting past. Presently he folded the paper and took a car that was going toward town. There was something he could do for Rosalind—something that no one had thought of—something that she would like!
He was as eager and as ignorant as a boy, standing in front of the barred ticket window and looking in.
“Tickets for the Symphony?” The man glanced out at him. “House sold out.”
Eldridge stared back. “You mean—I cannot—get them!”
“Something may come in. You can leave your name.” The man pushed paper and pencil toward him.
Eldridge wrote his name slowly. “I want—good ones.”
“Can’t say—” said the man.
“There are six ahead of you—” He took up the paper and made a note.