"I beg your pardon, Beatrice," I stammered. "It's not my business, of
course. I'm sorry I spoke of it."
Without making reply she bent over her work again. For some moments she
sewed, while I chid myself for suggesting romance to a sensible child.
Rapid steps beat upon the stairs outside, and Beatrice's father hurried
into the little den.
"Beatrice," he called, sharply, in his own language, "go thou to the
ticket-office. It is the hour of admittance for the people. I will finish
the angel."
The girl dropped her needle and sped out through the door. The manager
slammed it behind her, turned toward me, drew up his shoulders, and
raised his eyes toward heaven.
"May the saints aid me to make righteous that child!" he exclaimed. "Both
of my helpers came to me to-day to ask her in marriage. She promised
herself to both last night."