parallel to the taxi-cab journey to the theatre which followed it,
one can only think of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. And yet even
that was probably not conducted in dead silence. There must have been
moments when Murat got off a good thing or Ney said something worth
hearing about the weather.

The only member of the party who was even remotely happy was,
curiously enough, Freddie Rooke. Originally Freddie had obtained
three tickets for "Tried by Fire." The unexpected arrival of Lady
Underhill had obliged him to buy a fourth, separated by several rows
from the other three. This, as he had told Derek at breakfast, was
the seat he proposed to occupy himself.

It consoles the philosopher in this hard world to reflect that, even
if man is born to sorrow as the sparks fly upwards, it is still
possible for small things to make him happy. The thought of being
several rows away from Lady Underhill had restored Freddie's
equanimity like a tonic. It thrilled him like the strains of some
grand, sweet anthem all the way to the theatre. If Freddie Rooke had
been asked at that moment to define happiness in a few words, he
would have replied that it consisted in being several rows away from
Lady Underhill.

The theatre was nearly full when Freddie's party arrived. The
Leicester Theatre had been rented for the season by the newest
theatrical knight, Sir Chester Portwood, who had a large following;
and, whatever might be the fate of the play in the final issue, it
would do at least one night's business. The stalls were ablaze with
jewelry and crackling with starched shirt-fronts; and expensive
scents pervaded the air, putting up a stiff battle with the plebeian