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           Theplaywas"TheLittleMillionaire,"withGeorgeM.Cohan,andtherewasonestunningyoungbrunettewhomadehimsitwithbrimmingeyesintheecstasyofwatchingherdance.

           "Oh—you—wonderfulgirl,

           Whatawonderfulgirlyouare—"

           sangthetenor,andAmoryagreedsilently,butpassionately.

           "All—your—wonderfulwords

           Thrillmethrough—"

           Theviolinsswelledandquaveredonthelastnotes,thegirlsanktoacrumpledbutterflyonthestage,agreatburstofclappingfilledthehouse.Oh,tofallinlovelikethat,tothelanguorousmagicmelodyofsuchatune!

           Thelastscenewaslaidonaroof-garden,andthe’cellossighedtothemusicalmoon,whilelightadventureandfacilefroth-likecomedyflittedbackandforthinthecalcium.Amorywasonfiretobeanhabituiofroof-gardens,tomeetagirlwhoshouldlooklikethat—better,thatverygirl;whosehairwouldbedrenchedwithgoldenmoonlight,whileathiselbowsparklingwinewaspouredbyanunintelligiblewaiter.Whenthecurtainfellforthelasttimehegavesuchalongsighthatthepeopleinfrontofhimtwistedaroundandstaredandsaidloudenoughforhimtohear:

           "Whataremarkable-lookingboy!"

           Thistookhismindofftheplay,andhewonderedifhereallydidseemhandsometothepopulationofNewYork.

           Paskertandhewalkedinsilencetowardtheirhotel.Theformerwasthefirsttospeak.Hisuncertainfifteen-year-oldvoicebrokeininamelancholystrainonAmory’smusings:

           "I’dmarrythatgirlto-night."

           Therewasnoneedtoaskwhatgirlhereferredto.