their place to us.

Of course we instantly protested, albeit in whispers, as the play was
going on. But the beautiful Olympian lightly brushed aside our
objections.

"They don't belong here," she declared loftily. "They're freshmen--and
they only bought quarter seats."

Then, as the guilty pair seemed to hesitate, she summoned them with a
compelling gesture and the command: "Come out!"

At this they arose meekly enough, whereupon we redoubled our protests.
But to no purpose. The Titian-tinted creature was relentless. Our pleas
figured no more in her scheme of things than if they had been babblings
in an unknown tongue. To add to our discomfiture, a large part of the
audience seemed to have perceived the nature of our dilemma, and was
giving us amused attention.

It was a crisis; and in a crisis--especially one in which a member of
the so-called gentle sex is involved--I have learned to look to my
companion. He understands women. He has often told me so. And now, by
his action, he proved it. What he did was to turn and flee, and I fled
with him; nor did we pause until we were safely hidden away in humble
twenty-five cent seats at the rear of the chapel, in the shadow of the
overhanging gallery.

It is not my intention to write an extended criticism of the
performance. For one thing, I witnessed only a fragment of it, and for
another, though I once acted for a brief period as dramatic critic on a
New York newspaper, I was advised by my managing editor to give up
dramatic criticism, and I have followed his advice.

The scene evidently represented a room, its walls made of red screens
behind which rose the lofty pipes of the chapel organ. On a pedestal at
one side stood a bust of the Venus de Milo, while on the other hung an
engraving of a familiar picture which I believe is called "The Fates,"
and which has the appearance of having been painted by some-one-or-other
like Leighton or Bouguereau or Harold Bell Wright.

After we had given some attention to the play my companion remarked
that, from the dialect, he judged it to be "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I had
been told, however, that for certain reasons "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is
never played in the South; I therefore asked the young man in front of
me what play it was. He replied that it was Booth Tarkington and Harry
Leon Wilson's comedy, "The Man From Home," and as he made the statement
openly, I feel that I am violating no confidence in repeating what he
said--especiall