Now and then in the hotels Corny had managed conversation and temporary acquaintance with substantial, if not distinguished, guests.  With many of these he had exchanged cards, and the ones he received he carefully treasured for his own use later.  Leaving the hotel lobbies, Corny would stroll leisurely about, lingering at the theatre entrance, dropping into the fashionable restaurants as if seeking some friend.  He rarely patronized any of these places; he was no bee come to suck honey, but a butterfly flashing his wings among the flowers whose calyces held no sweets for him.  His wages were not large enough to furnish him with more than the outside garb of the gentleman.  To have been one of the beings he so cunningly imitated, Corny Brannigan would have given his right hand.

One night Corny had an adventure.  After absorbing the delights of an hour’s lounging in the principal hotels along Broadway, he passed up into the stronghold of Thespis.  Cab drivers hailed him as a likely fare, to his prideful content.  Languishing eyes were turned upon him as a hopeful source of lobsters and the delectable, ascendant globules of effervescence.  These overtures and unconscious compliments Corny swallowed as manna, and hoped Bill, the off horse, would be less lame in the left forefoot in the morning.

Beneath a cluster of milky globes of electric light Corny paused to admire the sheen of his low-cut patent leather shoes.  The building occupying the angle was a pretentious cafe.  Out of this came a couple, a lady in a white, cobwebby evening gown, with a lace wrap like a wreath of mist thrown over it, and a man, tall, faultless, assured—­too assured.  They moved to the edge of the sidewalk and halted.  Corny’s eye, ever alert for “pointers” in “swell” behaviour, took them in with a sidelong glance.

“The carriage is not here,” said the lady.  “You ordered it to wait?”

“I ordered it for nine-thirty,” said the man.  “It should be here now.”

A familiar note in the lady’s voice drew a more especial attention from Corny.  It was pitched in a key well known to him.  The soft electric shone upon her face.  Sisters of sorrow have no quarters fixed for them.  In the index to the book of breaking hearts you will find that Broadway follows very soon after the Bowery.  This lady’s face was sad, and her voice was attuned with it.  They waited, as if for the carriage.  Corny waited too, for it was out of doors, and he was never tired of accumulating and profiting by knowledge of gentlemanly conduct.

“Jack,” said the lady, “don’t be angry.  I’ve done everything I could to please you this evening.  Why do you act so?”

“Oh, you’re an angel,” said the man.  “Depend upon woman to throw the blame upon a man.”

“I’m not blaming you.  I’m only trying to make you happy.”

“You go about it in a very peculiar way.”

“You have been cross with me all the evening without any cause.”