Suddenly, as if by mutual inspiration, the composure of the stalls
began to slip. Looking from above, one could have seen a sort of
shudder run through the crowd. It was the effect of every member of
that crowd starting to move a little more quickly.

A hand grasped Jill's arm. It was a comforting hand, the hand of a
man who had not lost his head. A pleasant voice backed up its message
of reassurance.

"It's no good getting into that mob. You might get hurt. There's no
danger: the play isn't going on."

Jill was shaken: but she had the fighting spirit and hated to show
that she was shaken. Panic was knocking at the door of her soul, but
dignity refused to be dislodged.

"All the same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would be
nice to get out, wouldn't it?"

"I was just going to suggest something of that very sort," said the
man beside her. "The same thought occurred to me. We can stroll out
quite comfortably by our own private route. Come along."

Jill looked over her shoulder. Derek and Lady Underhill were merged
into the mass of refugees. She could not see them. For an instant a
little spasm of pique stung her at the thought that Derek had
deserted her. She groped her way after her companion, and presently
they came by way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading to the
stage.