Instantly there was a scurrying of the chorus from the lobby down the stage aisle; the dressmaker went hurriedly over the footlights, via a box; the curtain slowly settled; Brangstar climbed to his chair; and the voice of O'Reilly floated out in a final curse at the calcium lights. "Blind your blues and clear slow. Pete, bring it on slow this time! Do you get me? _Do you get me?_" And from above, the voice of the labor union, unruffled, neither to be coaxed nor driven, came impudently down: "Sure I get you!" "Overture, now. Then go through the first act. No stops!" said Blainey, lumbering up the aisle. Against the firefly lights of the orchestra his figure showed like a great barrel, short legs and short arms, with the sense of brute power in the blocked head sunk in the shoulders. He came to where they sat, shading his eyes. Sanderson stood up abruptly, at attention. "Hello, kid!" he said, perceiving Doré. "Hello, Blainey!" "See you after first act," he said, leaning over the chairs until they groaned, to take her hand in his enveloping grasp. "Who's that with you--the judge? Oh, Sanderson! What are you--oh, yes, I remember. Judge, glad you came; I want your opinion!" At this moment Massingale came down from the lobby and took a seat beside Doré, while Blainey, readjusting his soft black, broad-brimmed hat with a nervous revolving motion, sauntered on, impatient at the scraping of the violins and the preparatory pumping of the horns. Sanderson, at a nod from Blainey, had followed him into the lobby. "Surprised to see me here?" said Massingale, taking his seat. "You know, I turn up everywhere. I'm one of those who circulate. I came with Sada Quichy--she's great fun!" In fact, in New York three classes are privileged at every door--privileged because they have the power to make themselves feared: the politician in office; the representative of the press; and the judge who, at a word, can unloose the terrors of both the others. "Don't forget what you told me yesterday," she said, turning to him directly, haunted by the malice in his eyes when he had seen her handed down from Sassoon's automobile. "What did I tell you?" "That you would not misunderstand me!" "I don't!" he said, after an ineffectual attempt to see her face. "But--are you strong enough to play the game you are playing?" "Sassoon?" "Yes, Sassoon!" She thought of him, ruffled and rebellious, forced to accompany her to the stage entrance. She held him in slight respect. "Pooh! Sassoon!" She had a feeling that this man already had her confidence, that she could talk freely with him. "Harrigan Blood, yes; but not Sassoon!" "You are wrong about Sassoon," he said quietly. "It is not the clever man that is difficult to manage; it is the relentless one! That's Sassoon!" "Did you call yesterday--to warn me?" she said, turning to him. "No; moralizing is not my forte," he said, shaking his head. "You are unusual. I should like to watch--your progress!"