IV

           Astheirmotor-cab,onthewayfromtheGareduNord,turnedintothecentralglitteroftheBoulevard,Darrowhadbentovertopointoutanincandescentthreshold.

           “There!”

           Abovethedoorway,anarchofflameflashedoutthenameofagreatactress,whoseclosingperformancesinaplayofunusualoriginalityhadbeenthethemeoflongarticlesintheParispaperswhichDarrowhadtossedintotheircompartmentatCalais.

           “That’swhatyoumustseebeforeyou’retwenty-fourhoursolder!”

           Thegirlfollowedhisgestureeagerly.Shewasallawakeandalivenow,asiftheheadyrumoursofthestreets,withtheirlongeffervescencesoflight,hadpassedintoherveinslikewine.

           “Cerdine?Isthatwheresheacts?”Sheputherheadoutofthewindow,strainingbackforaglimpseofthesacredthreshold.Astheyflewpastitshesankintoherseatwithasatisfiedsigh.

           “It’sdeliciousenoughjusttoknowshe’sthere!I’veneverseenher,youknow.WhenIwasherewithMamieHokeweneverwentanywherebuttothemusichalls,becauseshecouldn’tunderstandanyFrench;andwhenIcamebackafterwardtotheFarlows’Iwasdeadbroke,andcouldn’taffordtheplay,andneithercouldthey;sotheonlychancewehadwaswhenfriendsoftheirsinvitedus—andonceitwastoseeatragedybyaRoumanianlady,andtheothertimeitwasfor‘L’AmiFritz’attheFrançais.”

           Darrowlaughed.“Youmustdobetterthanthatnow.‘LeVertige’isafinething,andCerdinegetssomewonderfuleffectsoutofit.Youmustcomewithmetomorroweveningtoseeit—withyourfriends,ofcourse.