It was the first theater Bud had entered since he left San Jose, and at the last minute he hesitated, tempted to turn back.
He hated moving pictures.

They always had love scenes somewhere in the story, and love scenes hurt.

But Frank had already bought two tickets, and it seemed unfriendly to turn back now.

He went inside to the jangling of a player-piano in dire need of a tuner's service, and sat down near the back of the hall with his hat upon his lifted knees which could have used more space between the seats.
While they waited for the program they talked in low tones, a mumble of commonplaces.

Bud forgot for the moment his distaste for such places, and let himself slip easily back into the old thought channels, the old habits of relaxation after a day's work was done.