If the piece is a burlesque or a comic
opera, much life moves in the darkness back here. Light comes from the
up-stairs windows of the theatre, the dressing rooms of the subordinate
players being up there. Snatches of song from feminine throats, mere trills
sometimes, isolated fragments of melody, break into the silence. These are
always numerous during the half-hour after the performance and before the
actors have left the theatre. Chorus girls in ulsters emerge in troops,
usually by twos, from the door beneath the light, and it is constantly
opening and shutting. In the gloom opposite the door hover a few bold
youths, suddenly become timid, smoking cigarettes and trying to look like
men of the world. As the comedian and I came forth, one of these young men
struck a match to light a cigarette. The momentary flash attracted my eye,
and I saw in the farthest shadow, with his gaze upon the stage door, my man
of the restaurant, and the manuscript, and the gallery. If possible,
he looked more haggard than before, and, as it was cold, he shivered
perceptibly.
"Whom can he be waiting for, I wonder?" I said, aloud.
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