You sha'n't lose it." Billy spoke with a smiling indifference that was meant to convey the impression that standing in line for a twenty-five-cent seat was a daily habit of hers.

"There's a restaurant only a little way--right down there," she finished.

And before the dazed Alice Greggory knew quite what was happening she found herself outside the line, and the other in her place.
"But, Miss Neilson, I can't--you mustn't--" she stammered; then, because of something in the unyieldingness of the square young chin above the sealskin coat, and because she could not (she knew) use actual force to drag the owner of that chin out of the line, she bowed her head in acquiescence.
"Well, then--I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich.
And--thank you," she choked, as she turned and hurried away.
Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after long struggles--but the breath broke off short in a gasp of dismay: coming straight up the Avenue toward her was the one person in the world Billy wished least to see at that moment--Bertram Henshaw.

Billy remembered then that she had twice lately heard her lover speak of calling at the Boston Opera House concerning a commission to paint an ideal head to represent "Music" for some decorative purpose.

The Opera House was only a short distance up the Avenue.