"I don't care who it's by," was the reply. "It's damn silly to let on a
man doesn't know his own wife when he sees her. I suppose that's
portry!" he sneered.
John did not answer, and his neighbour went on. "Well, if it is
portry ... God help it, that's all!"
But John did not care whether Bassanio had recognized Portia in the
court scene or not. He left the theatre in an exalted mood in which he
had little thought for the realities. Next week he told himself, he
would visit the Royal again. He would see two plays on the following
Saturday, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. The bills for
the following week's programme were already pasted on the walls of the
theatre when he came out, and he risked the loss of his train by
stopping to read one of them. _Romeo and Juliet_ was to be
performed in the afternoon, and _Julius Caesar_ in the evening.
He hurried down Ann Street and across the Queen's Bridge, and reached
the railway station just in time to catch his train; and all the way
across the bridge and all the way home in the train, one sentence
passed continually through his mind:
_...And her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece._