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 over the rim and hub of the wheel, he stood beside her on the curbstone, stiff, and with a strange sensation of having lost his outlook and reduced his height. He looked down at his legs. "They feel so short," he said. "I feel as if I had been cut off at the knees."

When he returned his thoughts to her, a little ashamed of his whimsicality, he found her drawn back from the approach of an automobile in which he recognised the man who had stared at her. The chauffeur stopped the machine beside them. The man raised his hat, smiling familiarly. "Jump in and have a ride."

She replied, in her coldest tones: "No, thank you."

"What are you doing now?"

"Mr. Gregg," she said, "this is Mr. Polk."

Polk merely nodded. "Yes. How d'you do?" He passed his eyes over Don—from the faded band of his hat to the worn hem of his trouser legs—with the same absent-minded observation which Don had noticed in him before. He said: "Been in to see Jimmy lately? He's making up a couple of road companies. How've you been, eh? You're looking tip-top."

"Mr. Gregg is from Canada, too," she said, turning to Don with the politest smile.

"On the stage?"

"Yes. It was such a beautiful morning we couldn't resist the top seat on it."

Polk blinked rapidly. "Oh? Yes. Well Go ahead, Jack. See you later."

The automobile coughed, exploded and kicked forward with a jerk. Polk waved his hand indifferently—and was gone again.