Another girl comes through the stage-door. She is probably twenty-four years of age, is tall, handsome, and most attractive in her manners. There is the least suspicion of the matron in her appearance, that dignity of carriage that characterizes women after marriage being clearly defined in her motions. She knows somebody has been waiting for her,—a young fellow as tall, handsome, and attractive as herself. He sees her at once as she comes out, and goes to meet her. Her footsteps are bent in his direction also. As they come together she lays her hand upon his extended arm, and says:—
"No, Fred, I cannot go to-night. Sister is sick at the hotel, and the baby has no one to take care of her. I must go home to my child."
"Pshaw!" says Fred, "I had everything arranged for an elegant drive and a rattling supper."
"I'm so sorry, Fred;" the woman pleads, "but I can't go to-night. You will have to excuse me this once. You know it was daylight when we parted this morning."
"I know," her friend insisted; "but what's the use in worrying about the baby. She's probably asleep now and won't need your care. Come, go along."
"No, I cannot. I will not to-night." But Fred continues to plead, asking the pleasure of her presence at a supper, just for a half hour and no more. Unable to resist the warmth of his appeals, she at last consents, and it is safe to say, that once the evening's entertainment begins, morning breaks upon the sleepy babe and sick sister at the hotel before Fred and his companion are ready to part.
I knew a friend—a dramatic writer—who stood at the back door one night and waited for a pair of pretty chorus singers. My friend had another friend with him—a prominent merchant. The two gay and giddy young girls, who were only foolish flirts, did not know that the gentlemen who had invited them to a midnight ride and a late supper were married. Indeed, they may not have cared. So when the opera of "Olivette" was over and the pair of chorus singers emerged at the back door of the stage and found the two gentlemen waiting patiently for them, the girls each gave over a bundle to her particular friend to have him carry in his pocket until such time as the quartette got ready to separate. The bundles each contained a pair of pink "symmetricals"—padded tights. The young ladies informed their friends of this fact, and cautioned them to be sure to return the bundles before leaving. Well, the night wore on joyously with wine and singing and the usual pleasures of a late drive. At last, at 3 A. M., the girls got ready to return to their hotel. They were driven thither, and the entire party having imbibed more wine than was necessary, soft and sweet adieus were so tenderly spoken that nobody thought about the two pairs of pink symmetricals. The gentlemen ordered the carriage driver to speed homeward with them, and he did so. First the dramatic writer disembarked at the door of his residence, ran up stairs, pulled off his clothes, and was soon sound asleep. The merchant was soon at his own door, had settled with the driver and the carriage had just rolled away when, as he was fumbling at the latch-key he thought of the pair of tights. With one bound he cleared the steps, and running into the street, shouted after the carriage. The driver heard him, stopped, and was given the pair of tights to take around to the chorus girl's hotel that day and a $5 bill to pocket for the services. It was a narrow escape for the merchant. For the dramatic writer it was no escape at all. He was rudely awakened at ten o'clock in the morning, and the first sight that met his eyes was his infuriated wife holding the pair of pink tights by the toes and stretching them out so that the sin of the husband stood revealed to him in all its fulness.
"Where did these come from?" the exasperated wife shrieked, flaunting them before the husband's eyes.
"Where did you get them?" He asked, trembling, and unable to think of any good excuse to make.
"I got them in your coat pocket," his spouse shouted, piling up the evidence and agony in a way that was excruciating.