The Cresslers and their friends were among the last to regain the
vestibule. But as they came out from the foyer, where the first
draughts of outside air began to make themselves felt, there were
exclamations:

"It's raining."

"Why, it's raining right down."

It was true. Abruptly the weather had moderated, and the fine, dry snow
that had been falling since early evening had changed to a lugubrious
drizzle. A wave of consternation invaded the vestibule for those who
had not come in carriages, or whose carriages had not arrived. Tempers
were lost; women, cloaked to the ears, their heads protected only by
fichus or mantillas, quarrelled with husbands or cousins or brothers
over the question of umbrellas. The vestibules were crowded to
suffocation, and the aigrettes nodded and swayed again in alternate
gusts, now of moist, chill atmosphere from without, and now of stale,
hot air that exhaled in long puffs from the inside doors of the theatre
itself. Here and there in the press, footmen, their top hats in rubber
cases, their hands full of umbrellas, searched anxiously for their
masters.

Outside upon the sidewalks and by the curbs, an apparently inextricable
confusion prevailed; policemen with drawn clubs laboured and
objurgated: anxious, preoccupied young men, their opera hats and gloves
beaded with rain, hurried to and fro, searching for their carriages. At
the edge of the awning, the caller, a gigantic fellow in gold-faced
uniform, shouted the numbers in a roaring, sing-song that dominated
every other sound. Coachmen, their wet rubber coats reflecting the
lamplight, called back and forth, furious quarrels broke out between
hansom drivers and the police officers, steaming horses with jingling
bits, their backs covered with dark green cloths, plunged and pranced,
carriage doors banged, and the roll of wheels upon the pavement was as
the reverberation of artillery caissons.

"Get your carriage, sir?" cried a ragged, half-grown arab at Cressler's
elbow.

"Hurry up, then," said Cressler. Then, raising his voice, for the
clamour was increasing with every second: "What's your number, Laura?
You girls first. Ninety-three? Get that, boy? Ninety-three. Quick now."

The carriage appeared. Hastily they said good-by; hastily Laura
expressed to Mrs. Cressler her appreciation and enjoyment. Corthell saw
them to the carriage, and getting in after them shut the door behind
him. They departed.

Laura sank back in the cool gloo