her, but she gazed demurely in front of her and did not attempt to
verify the suspicion.

Between them, as they sat side by side, there inserted itself
suddenly the pinkly remorseful face of Freddie Rooke. Freddie, having
skirmished warily in the aisle until it was clear that Lady
Underhill's attention was engaged elsewhere, had occupied a seat in
the row behind which had been left vacant temporarily by an owner who
liked refreshment between the acts. Freddie was feeling deeply
ashamed of himself. He felt that he had perpetrated a bloomer of no
slight magnitude.

"I'm awfully sorry about this," he said penitently. "I mean, roping
you in to listen to this frightful tosh! When I think I might have
got seats just as well for any one of half a dozen topping musical
comedies, I feel like kicking myself with some vim. But, honestly,
how was I to know? I never dreamed we were going to be let in for
anything of this sort. Portwood's plays are usually so dashed bright
and snappy and all that. Can't think what he was doing, putting on a
thing like this. Why, it's blue round the edges!"

The man on Jill's right laughed sharply.

"Perhaps," he said, "the chump who wrote the piece got away from the
asylum long enough to put up the money to produce it."

If there is one thing that startles the well-bred Londoner and throws
him off his balance, it is to be addressed unexpectedly by a
stranger. Freddie's sense of decency was revolted. A voice from the
tomb could hardly have shaken him more. All the traditions to which