iteness against a deep-blue sky had left
a picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian
Nights; but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed
from the chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women's eyes at the
Astor, where he and young Paskert from St. Regis' had dinner. When they
walked down the aisle of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging
and discord of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of
paint and powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything
enchanted him. The play was "The Little Millionaire," with George M.
Cohan, and there was one stunning young brunette who made him sit with
brimming eyes in the ecstasy of watching her dance.

"Oh--you--wonderful girl,
What a wonderful girl you are--"

sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately.

"All--your--wonderful words
Thrill me through--"

The violins swelled and quavered on the last notes, the girl sank to a
crumpled butterfly on the stage, a great burst of clapping filled the
house. Oh, to fall in love like that, to the languorous magic melody of
such a tune!

The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the 'cellos sighed to the
musical moon, while light adventure and facile froth-like comedy flitted
back and forth in the calcium. Amory was on fire to be an habitui of
roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that--better, that
very girl; whose hair would be drenched with golden moonlight, while at
his elbow sparkling wine was poured by an unintelligible waiter. When
the curtain fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the
people in front of him twisted around and stared and said loud enough
for him to hear:

"What a _remarkable_-looking boy!"

This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem
handsome to the population of New York.

Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former was
the first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice broke in in a
melancholy strain on Amory's musings:

"I'd marry that girl to-night."

There was no need to ask what girl he referred to.

"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people,"
continued Paskert.

Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of
Paskert. It sounded so mature.

"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?"

"No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis,