Scores
of bicyclists of both sexes sped over the asphalt up and down, some now
and then deviating to make way for a lumbering yellow 'bus or a hurrying
carriage.
Men and women, young people composing the majority, strolled to and fro in
the roomy lobby that environs the auditorium on all sides save that of the
stage. A group of enthusiasts stood between the rear door of the box-office
and the wide entrance to the long middle aisle.
"How magnificently Guille held that last note!"
"What good taste and artistic sense Madame Kronold has!"
"Del Puente hasn't been in better voice in years."
"But you know, Mademoiselle Islar is decidedly a lyric soprano."
These were some of the scraps of the conversation of that group. A lithe,
athletic-looking man of thirty stood mechanically listening to them, as he
stroked his black moustache. He was in summer attire, evidently disdaining
conventionalities, preferring comfort.
Suddenly losing interest in the conversation in his vicinity, he started
toward the Montgomery Avenue side of the lobby, with the apparent intention
of breathing some outside air at one of the wide-barred exits, where
children stood looking in from the sidewalk, and catching what glimpses
they could of the audience through the doorways in the glass partition
bounding the auditorium.
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