FAREWELL
It was nearly half-past eight; the house had been open since seven; and still a queue ran from the gallery doors to Broadway, while still an apparently
interminable string of vehicles writhed from one corner to the lobby entrance, paused to deposit its perishable freight, and streaked away to Sixth Avenue. The
lobby itself was crowded to suffocation with an Occidental durbar of barbaric magnificence, the city's supreme manifestation of its religion, the ultimate rite in
the worship of the pomps of the flesh.
"Look at that," Max grumbled through his cigar. "Ain't it a shame?"
"What?" Whitaker had to lift his voice to make it carry above the buzzing of the throng.
"The money I'm losing," returned the manager, vividly disgusted. "I could've filled the Metropolitan Opera House
