universally passed upon himself. Then his thoughts took a new tack.
"Wonder what the daughter is like? I'll have to hunt her up. It's a
joke--if it _is_ on me! Must see my débutante. After all, if I'm paying,
I ought to look her over. She's going to the Opera--in Denning's
box--h'm!"

Gard broke two engagements, and at the appointed hour found himself
wandering through the corridor back of the first tier boxes at the
Metropolitan. Its bare convolutions were as resonant as a sea shell.
Vast and vague murmurs of music, presages of melodies, undulated through
the passages, palpitated like the living breath of Euterpe, suppressed
excitement lurked in every turn, there was throb and glow in each
pulsating touch of unseen instruments. Gard found his heart tightening,
his nostrils expanding. A flash of the divine fire of youth leaped
through his veins. Adventure suddenly beckoned him--the lure of the
unknown, of the magic _x_ of algebra in human equation. So great was his
enjoyment that he savored it as one savors a dainty morsel, lingering
over it, fearful that the next taste may destroy the perfect flavor.

He paced the corridor, nodding here and there, pausing for a moment to
chat with this or that personage, affable, noncommittal,
Chesterfieldian, handsome and distinguished in his clean, silver-touched
middle age.

Inwardly he was fretting for their appearance--his débutante and Mme.
Robin Hood. Of course they must do the conventional thing and be late.
But to his pleased surprise, just as the overture was drawing to its
close, he saw Denning and his wife approaching. Behind them he discerned
the finely held head and chiseled features of the Lady of Compulsion,
and close beside her a slender, girlish figure, shrouded in a silver and