"There'll be quite a while to wait while she's changing." "Better keep it," he disagreed.

"Might not find another." We kept it.
At the stage door there was confusion.

Having completed its week in Washington, the play was about to move elsewhere, and furniture was already coming out into the narrow passage, and being piled up to be taken on wagons to the train.

It took us some time to find the doorman, and it took the doorman--as it always does take doormen--a long, long time to depart into the unknown region of dressing rooms, with the cards we gave him, and a still longer time to return.
"Says to wait," he grunted when he came back.
Meanwhile more and more furniture had come out, menacing our shins and our beautifully polished hats in passing, and leaving us less room in which to stand.
We waited.
After ten minutes had passed, I remarked: "I wish we had let the taxi go." After twenty minutes I remarked: "I always feel like an idiot when I have to wait at a stage door." "I don't see why you do it, then," said he.
"And I hate it worse when I'm in evening dress.

I hate the way the actors look at us, when they come out.