not tell the other what he felt; he could not have spoken, just then, to
any mortal. Besides, Pendennis did not quite know what he felt yet; it
was something overwhelming, maddening, delicious; a fever of wild joy and
undefined longing.

And now Rowkins and Miss Thackthwaite came on to dance the favourite
double hornpipe, and Foker abandoned himself to the delights of this
ballet, just as he had to the tears of the tragedy, a few minutes before.
Pen did not care for it, or indeed think about the dance, except to
remember that that woman was acting with her in the scene where she first
came in. It was a mist before his eyes. At the end of the dance he looked
at his watch and said it was time for him to go.

"Hang it, stay to see The Bravo of the Battle-Axe," Foker said,
"Bingley's splendid in it; he wears red tights, and has to carry Mrs. B.
over the Pine-bridge of the Cataract, only she's too heavy. It's great
fun, do stop."

Pen looked at the bill with one lingering fond hope that Miss
Fotheringay's name might be hidden, somewhere, in the list of the actors
of the after-piece, but there was no such name. Go he must. He had a long
ride home. He squeezed Foker's hand. He was choking to speak, but he
couldn't. He quitted the theatre and walked frantically about the town,
he knew not how long; then he mounted at the George and rode homewards,
and Clavering clock sang out one as he came into the yard at Fairoaks.
The lady of the house might have been awake, but she only heard him from
the passage outside his room as he dashed into bed and pulled the clothes
over his head.

Pen had not been in the habit of passing wakeful nights, so he at once