act, he felt once more that terrible wave of depression, the ghostly
uprising of his old terrors even in this supreme moment. He looked down
from the panorama of flaring sky-signs into the faces of the passers-by
along the crowded pavement. He had a sudden fancy that Dane was there,
watching. His heart beat fiercely as he stood, almost transfixed,
scanning eagerly every strange face. Then the bell rang behind him. He
set his teeth and turned away. In less than half an hour the play would
be over. They would be on their way home.

He found the box door open and the box itself, to his surprise, empty.
There was no sign anywhere of Beatrice. He waited for a little time. Then
he rang the bell for the attendant but could hear no news of her. His
uneasiness increased as the curtain at last fell and she had not
returned. He hurried round to the back, but Elizabeth, when he told her,
only smiled.

"Why, there's nothing to worry about, dear," she said. "Beatrice can take
care of herself. Perhaps she thought it more tactful to hurry on home
tonight. She is really just as kind-hearted as she can be, you know,
Philip, underneath all that pent-up, passionate desire for just a small
share of the good things of life. She has wasted so much of herself in
longings. Poor child! I sometimes wonder that she is as level-headed as
she seems to be. Now I am ready."

They passed down the corridor amidst a little chorus of good nights, and
stepped into the automobile which was waiting. As it glided off she
suddenly came closer to him.

"Philip," she whispered, "it's true, isn't it? Put your arms around me.
You are driving me home--say it's true!"