The scene at the entrance of the theatre did not seem real to Ambrose. The street, the roofs of buildings, the neighbouring windows, the lobby, all were crowded to their uttermost capacity. Search-lights swept the faces. A cleared passage from street to lobby, across the sidewalk, was sternly held in order by uniformed officers. As they drove up, Ambrose heard a man in evening-dress announce through a megaphone: Miss Imperia Starling. Amidst rapturous applause the celebrated lady advanced to a chalked spot on the pavement and adjusted her Spanish shawl while a camera man ground out her famous smile. Mama Starling and Count Jaime Supari waited on the side-lines.
When Auburn emerged from the Marmon her welcome was deafening: the man with the megaphone could not be heard as he unnecessarily announced her name.
Auburn! Our Auburn! the crowd greeted her. An old man, a girl, and a young boy contrived to slip through the line.
Let me kiss the hem of your garment, begged the girl.
Let me kiss your foot! was the old man's desire.
Auburn lifted the boy in her arms and imprinted a kiss on his lips.
