He faced them all confidently, with glances of slightly amused tolerance.

They were good men in their way but they were not actors--not artists.
In the neatly landscaped little green place back of the office building a climbing rose grew on a trellis.

He plucked a pink bud, fixed it in his lapel, and strolled down the street past the dressing rooms.

Across from these the doors of the big stages were slid back, and inside he could see that sets were being assembled.

The truckload of furniture came to one of these doors and he again watched it as the stuff was carried inside.
For all these workmen knew, he might presently be earning a princely salary as he acted amid these beautiful objects, perhaps attending a reception in a Fifth Avenue mansion where the father of a beautiful New York society girl would tell him that he must first make good before he could aspire to her hand.