Mark beamed across the desk and lied, “Why, this fellow Dufford that wrote this is a friend of mine and he’s poor as a churchmouse. I thought I’d take a chance.” The manager shuffled and blurted, “It’s a damn poor chance.” “Mighty poor, Billy. Well, the show business is a gamble, anyhow.” Rand was gone from the vestibule. Mark walked seething over Broadway and into Sixth Avenue. He must think of something to do, tonight. He couldn’t sit at home. The flags on the Hippodrome wagged to him. He went there and bought two seats. The tickets stayed unmentioned in his pocket all the deadly afternoon. At six he said shyly to Gurdy, “Think you want to see this tonight, son?” “Might as well, sir.” The “sir” pleased Mark. It rang respectfully. He stammered, “I got a couple of seats for the show at the Hippodrome and--” “That’s good,” Gurdy said, “We needn’t dress, then.” But Mark sat haunted in the vast theatre, watching the stage. He had deserted his own, run from disaster. The Walling revenged itself. He saw the misty ceiling wane as lights lowered and the remote rims of silver mirrors fade in the corners of the gallery. The glow from the stage would show the massed shoulders of women in the black boxes. Cora Boyle would be sitting in the righthand box. She might wear a yellow gown. He would risk seeing that to be mixed in his dream. It was the best theatre of the city, of the world. He blinked at the monstrous evolutions of this chorus, peered at Gurdy and saw the boy sit moodily, knee over knee, listless from grieving, his arms locked. The time ticked on Mark’s wrist--The critics would be filing into the white vestibule where men must admire the dull blue panels of clear enamel, the simple, grooved ceiling and the hidden lamps. The yellow smoke room would be full. He wanted to be there in the face of derision. A dry aching shook Mark. It was like the past time when Gurdy first went to school or when Margot had gone to England; the Walling was his child. He had desired it beyond any woman. He adored it out of his wretchedness. He pressed his shoulder against Gurdy for the sake of warmth and Gurdy grinned loyally at him. There was no one so kind as Gurdy who began to tell silly tales when they came home and sat on Mark’s bed smoking cigarettes. In the morning the boy brought up the papers and said gruffly, “Not as bad as I thought--” “Oh, get out! I bet they’re fierce,” Mark laughed, “Read me some.” Gurdy dropped the damp sheets on the quilt, glared at them and dashed his hand against the foot of the bed. He cried, “I don’t give a d-damn what they say about the play! They’ve no right to talk about you like that!”