At last came the train--just the dingy train to stop at such a station. I boarded it, found a seat, and continued to dream dreams as we rattled on toward Washington. Even when I found myself walking through that great terminal by which all railroads enter the capital, I hardly believed that I was there, nor did I feel entirely myself until I had reached my room in the New Willard. Having started my bath, I went and knocked upon the door of the near-by room where the clerk had told me I should find my fellow traveler. "Oh," he said, without enthusiasm as he discovered me. "You're here, are you?" He looked imposing and severe in his evening dress. I felt correspondingly dirty and humble. "Yes," I replied meekly. "Any news?" "None," he replied. "I've reserved a table at Harvey's. They dance there. At first they said there was not a table to be had--Saturday night, you know--but I told them who was to be with us, and they changed their minds." "Good. I'll be dressed in a little while. Silk hats?" He nodded. I returned to my own room. Less than an hour later, my toilet completed, I rejoined him, and together we descended, in full regalia, to the lobby. "Shall we take a taxi?" he suggested, as we passed out of the side entrance. "How far away is the theater?" "I don't know." We asked the carriage starter. He said it was only two or three blocks. "Let's walk," I said. "I don't feel like walking," he returned. We rode. The theater was just emptying when we arrived. "I suppose we'd better let the cab go?" I said. "There'll be quite a while to wait while she's changing." "Better keep it," he disagreed. "Might not find another." We kept it. At the stage door there was confusion. Having completed its week in Washington, the play was about to move elsewhere, and furniture was already coming out into the narrow passage, and being piled up to be taken on wagons to the train. It took us some time to find the doorman, and it took the doorman--as it always does take doormen--a long, long time to depart into the unknown region of dressing rooms, with the cards we gave him, and a still longer time to return. "Says to wait," he grunted when he came back. Meanwhile more and more furniture had come out, menacing our shins and our beautifully polished hats in passing, and leaving us less room in which to stand. We waited. After ten minutes had passed, I remarked: "I wish we had let the taxi go." After twenty minutes I remarked: "I always feel like an idiot when I have to wait at a stage door." "I don't see why you do it, then," said he. "And I hate it worse when I'm in evening dress. I hate the way the actors look at us, when they come out. They think we're a couple of Johnnies." "And supposing they do?" I do not know how long this unsatisfactory dialogue might have continued had not some one come to the inside of the stage door and spoken to the doorman, whereat he indicated us with a gesture and said: "There they are."