After that we retired behind the curtain to sit on an empty box and
eat sandwiches and watch the last lingering plumbers pasting up the
steam connections with a pot of molten lead.

The plumbers were Americans, brought to Paris to make repairs on the
American buildings during the exposition, and we conversed with them
affably as they pottered about, plumber-like, poking under the
flooring with lighted candles, rubbing their thumbs up and down musty
old pipes, and prying up planks in dark corners.

They informed us that they were union men and that they hoped we were
too. And I replied that union was certainly my ultimate purpose, at
which the young Countess smiled dreamily at vacancy.

We did not dare leave the incubators. The plumbers lingered on, hour
after hour, while we sat and watched the little silver thermometers,
and waited.

It was time for the Countess Suzanne to dress, and still the plumbers
had not finished; so I sent a messenger for her maid, to bring her
trunk to the lecture-hall, and I despatched another messenger to my
lodgings for my evening clothes and fresh linen.

There were several dressing-rooms off the stage. Here, about six
o'clock, the Countess retired with her maid, to dress, leaving me to
watch the plumbers and the thermometers.

When the Countess Suzanne returned, radiant and lovely in an evening
gown of black lace, I gave her the roses I had brought for her and
hurried off to dress in my turn, leaving her to watch the
thermometers.