Her hand fluttered on his sleeve and her left eye continuously beguiled him from under the overhanging curl.

As often as he thought it desirable he put the bored glance upon her, though mostly he stared in dejection at the coffee cup or the empty wine glass.

He was sorry that she had had that trouble with the cigar, but one who as Little Eva or poor persecuted Louise, the blind girl, had to do a song and dance between the acts must surely come from a low plane of art.
He was relieved when, at megaphoned directions, an elderly fop came to whirl her off in the dance.

Her last speech was: "That poor Henshaw--the gelatin master'll have megaphone-lip by to-night." He was left alone at his table.

He wondered if they might want a close-up of him this way, uncompanioned, jaded, tired of it all, as if he would be saying: "There's always the river!" But nothing of this sort happened.