Our taxi drew into the long line of motor cars before the theatre and
slowly crept up to the door. Dicky jumped out, raised his umbrella and
guided me into the lobby. It was filled with men and women, some in
elaborate evening dress, others in street garb. Some were going in
to their seats, others were gossiping with each other, still others
appeared to be waiting for friends.

The most conspicuous of all the women leaned against the wall and
gazed at others through a lorgnette which she handled as if she had
not long before been accustomed to its use. Her gown, a glaringly
cut one, was of scarlet chiffon over silk, and her brocaded cape was
half-slipping from her shoulder. Her hair was frankly dyed, and she
rouged outrageously.

I gazed at her fascinated. She typified to me everything that was
disagreeable. I have always disliked even being in the neighborhood
of her vulgar kind. What was my horror, then, to see her deliberately
smiling at me, then coming toward us with hand outstretched.

I realized the truth even before she spoke. It was not I at whom she
was smiling, but Dicky. She was Dicky's friend!

"Why, bless my soul, if it isn't the Dicky-bird," she cried so loudly
that everybody turned to look at us. She took my hand. "I suppose you
are the bride Dicky's been hiding away so jealously." She looked me up
and down as if I were on exhibition and turning to Dicky said. "Pretty
good taste, Dicky, but I don't imagine that your old friends will see
much of you from now on."