for once clapped to make a noise, and split their gloves. A youth, his
hair disordered and a hectic flush in his cheeks, rushed straight for
the stage, crying, "Who is she?"

Lewis stuck out his foot and tripped him. Great was his fall, and the
commotion thereof switched the emotions of the throng back to sanity.
Conventional, dogged clapping and shouts of "_Bis! Bis_!" were relied on
to bring the curtain up again, and relied on in vain. Once more Mrs.
Ruttle-Marter was surrounded and beseeched to use her best efforts. As
she acceded, a servant handed Lewis a scribbled note. "Come and take me
out of this. Vi," he read. He slipped out behind the servant.

In the cab they were silent for a long time. Lewis's eyes kept wandering
over Vi, conventional once more, and lazing in her corner.

"Well," she drawled at last, "what did you think of it?"

"Think of it?" said Lewis. "There were three times when I wanted to
shout, 'Hold that pose!' After that--well, after that my brain stopped
working."

"Do you mean it?" asked Vi.

"Mean what?"

"About wanting me to hold a pose."

"Yes," said Lewis; "of course. What of it?"

"What of it? Why, I will. When?"