That is a trick which would make the prettiest
kind of a girl look owlish.
On the night that Sam Miller strolled up to talk to her, Pearlie
was working late. She had promised to get out a long and
intricate bill for Max Baum, who travels for Kuhn and Klingman,
so that he might take the nine o'clock evening train. The
irrepressible Max had departed with much eclat and clatter, and
Pearlie was preparing to go home when Sam approached her.
Sam had just come in from the Gayety Theatre across the street,
whither he had gone in a vain search for amusement after supper.
He had come away in disgust. A soiled soubrette with
orange-colored hair and baby socks had swept her practiced eye
over the audience, and, attracted by Sam's good-looking blond
head in the second row, had selected him as the target of her
song. She had run up to the extreme edge of the footlights at the
risk of teetering over, and had informed Sam through the medium
of song--to the huge delight of the audience, and to Sam's
red-faced discomfiture--that she liked his smile, and he was just
her style, and just as cute as he could be, and just the boy for
her. On reaching the chorus she had whipped out a small, round
mirror and, assisted by the calcium-light man in the rear, had
thrown a wretched little spotlight on Sam's head.
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