“Hello,” she said. “You don’t live in New York, do you?”
“Yes, why?”
“Oh, you looked so homesick—when we sang.”
Bellair’s heart sank.
“I think I was homesick. What may I order for you?”
“A little Rhine wine—it’s very good here—and a sandwich——”
The waiter was standing by. Bellair had to clear his voice before ordering. He was distressed—up to his eyes in gloom that was general and without name.
5
“Do you sing in other places to-night?”
“Oh, yes, we’re just beginning. We’re on Broadway at eleven.”