He glanced through the slit in the curtain and relinquished her place to her.
"Pardon me, pardon me for disturbing you . . ." he said.
"Oh, I've looked all I wanted to, sir . . ." she answered.
"Not a very interesting sight, is it? . . ." he queried. "The most authentic Philistia; trade-mongers and shoemakers. . . . Perhaps you think, madame, that they come to hear, and admire the play? Oh, no! . . . they come here to display their new clothes, have supper, and kill time. . . ."
"Well then, who does come for the play itself?" she asked.
"In this place, no one. . . . At the Grand Theater and at the Varieties . . . there, perhaps, you may yet find a group, a very small group who love art and who come for the sake of art alone. I have often touched upon that matter in the papers."
"Mr. Editor, let me have a cigarette!" called an actor from behind the scenes.
"At your service." He handed the actor a silver cigarette-case.
Janina, moving away, gazed with admiration at the writer, delighted with the opportunity of observing such a man at close range.
How many times in the country while listening to the everlasting conversations about farming, politics, rainy and clear weather, she had dreamed of this other world, of people who would discourse to her of ideals, art, humanity, progress and poetry, and who impersonated in themselves all those ideals.