A steady rain was beating against the windows, and a rising wind
made itself heard in feeble wails as it turned the dark corners of
the Tavern. Presently it was to howl and shriek, and, as the rain
ceased, to rattle the window shutters and the ancient, creaking
sign that hung out over the porch,--for on the wind tonight came
the first chill touch of winter.
"A fine night to be indoors," remarked Courtney in his most genial
manner as he moved a rocking chair up to the fireplace and gallantly
indicated to old Mrs. Nichols that it was intended for her.
"Ain't you going out tonight, Court?" inquired Mr. Hatch.
"Iron horses couldn't drag me out tonight," he replied. "Sit here,
Mrs. Pollock. Doc, pull up that sofa for Miss Grady and Miss Miller.
Let's have a chimney-corner symposium. Is symposium the right word,
Miss Miller? Ah, I see it isn't. Well, I did my best. I could have
got away with it in New York, but no chance here. And speaking
of New York reminds me that at this very instant the curtains are
going up and the lights are going down in half a hundred theatres,--and
I don't mind confessing I'd like to be in one of them."
"That's one thing I envy New York for," said Mrs. Pollock. "Hand
me my knitting off the table, Lincoln, please. I love the theatre.
I could go every night--"
"You get tired of them after a little while, Maude," said Flora
Grady, a trifle languidly.
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