"You might want it
after you get out into the air, Mr. Potter. I'm sure Mr. Tinker
or Mr. Canby won't mind taking charge of it for you until you
feel like putting it on."
"Lord! Don't make such a fuss, Packer. Put it on me--put it on
me!"
He extended his arms behind him, and was enveloped solicitously
and reverently in the garment.
"Confound him!" said Potter good-humouredly, as they came out
into the lobby. "It is chilly; he's usually right, the idiot!"
Turning from Broadway, at the corner, they went over to Fifth
Avenue, where Potter's unconsciousness of the people who
recognized and stared at him was, as usual, one of the finest
things he did, either upon the stage or "off." Superb
performance as it was, it went for nothing with Stewart Canby,
who did not even see it, for he walked entranced, not in a town,
but through orchards in bloom.
If Wanda Malone had remained with him, clear and insistent after
yesterday's impersonal vision of her at rehearsal, what was she
now, when every tremulous lilt of the zither-string voice, and
every little gesture of the impulsive hands, and every eager
change of the glowing face, were fresh and living, in all their
beautiful reality, but a matter of minutes past? He no longer
resisted the bewitchment; he wanted all of it.
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