They are saying this as they surge out in great waves of furs and silks, with black crush hats floating on billows of white wraps among the foam of gossamer scarfs. Through it all is the squawk of the motor horn, the call of the taxi numbers and the inrush of the fresh night air.

But just inside the theater, in the office, is a man in a circus waistcoat adding up dollars with a blue pencil, and he knows that the play is all right.

[Ill.u.s.tration: He takes her in his arms.]

_FAMILIAR INCIDENTS_

_I.--With the Photographer_

"I WANT my photograph taken," I said. The photographer looked at me without enthusiasm. He was a drooping man in a gray suit, with the dim eye of a natural scientist. But there is no need to describe him.

Everybody knows what a photographer is like.

"Sit there," he said, "and wait."

I waited an hour. I read the _Ladies Companion_ for 1912, the _Girls Magazine_ for 1902 and the _Infants Journal_ for 1888. I began to see that I had done an unwarrantable thing in breaking in on the privacy of this man"s scientific pursuits with a face like mine.

After an hour the photographer opened the inner door.

"Come in," he said severely.

I went into the studio.

"Sit down," said the photographer.

I sat down in a beam of sunlight filtered through a sheet of factory cotton hung against a frosted skylight.

The photographer rolled a machine into the middle of the room and crawled into it from behind.

He was only in it a second,--just time enough for one look at me,--and then he was out again, tearing at the cotton sheet and the window panes with a hooked stick, apparently frantic for light and air.

Then he crawled back into the machine again and drew a little black cloth over himself. This time he was very quiet in there. I knew that he was praying and I kept still.

When the photographer came out at last, he looked very grave and shook his head.

"The face is quite wrong," he said.

"I know," I answered quietly; "I have always known it."

He sighed.

"I think," he said, "the face would be better three-quarters full."

"I"m sure it would," I said enthusiastically, for I was glad to find that the man had such a human side to him. "So would yours. In fact," I continued, "how many faces one sees that are apparently hard, narrow, limited, but the minute you get them three-quarters full they get wide, large, almost boundless in----"

But the photographer had ceased to listen. He came over and took my head in his hands and twisted it sideways. I thought he meant to kiss me, and I closed my eyes.

But I was wrong.

He twisted my face as far as it would go and then stood looking at it.

He sighed again.

"I don"t like the head," he said.

Then he went back to the machine and took another look.

"Open the mouth a little," he said.

I started to do so.

"Close it," he added quickly.

Then he looked again.

"The ears are _bad_," he said; "droop them a little more. Thank you. Now the eyes. Roll them in under the lids. Put the hands on the knees, please, and turn the face just a little upward. Yes, that"s better. Now just expand the lungs! So! And hump the neck--that"s it--and just contract the waist--ha!--and twist the hip up toward the elbow--now! I still don"t quite like the face, it"s just a trifle _too_ full, but----"

I swung myself round on the stool.

"Stop," I said with emotion but, I think, with dignity. "This face is _my_ face. It is not yours, it is mine. I"ve lived with it for forty years and I know its faults. I know it"s out of drawing. I know it wasn"t made for me, but it"s _my_ face, the only one I have--" I was conscious of a break in my voice but I went on--"such as it is, I"ve learned to love it. And this is my mouth, not yours. These ears are _mine_, and if your machine is too narrow--" Here I started to rise from the seat.

Snick!

The photographer had pulled a string. The photograph taken. I could see the machine still staggering from the shock.

"I think," said the photographer, pursing his lips in a pleased smile, "that I caught the features just in a moment of animation."

"So!" I said bitingly,--"features, eh? You didn"t think I could animate them, I suppose? But let me see the picture."

"Oh, there"s nothing to see yet," he said, "I have to develop the negative first. Come back on Sat.u.r.day and I"ll let you see a proof of it."

On Sat.u.r.day I went back.

The photographer beckoned me in. I thought he seemed quieter and graver than before. I think, too, there was a certain pride in his manner.

He unfolded the proof of a large photograph, and we both looked at it in silence.

"Is it me?" I asked.

"Yes," he said quietly, "it is you," and we went on looking at it.

"The eyes," I said hesitatingly, "don"t look very much like mine."