n Degen appeared in the opposite box with Ralph
Marvell behind her. The two seemed to be alone in the box--as they had
doubtless been alone all the evening!--and Undine furtively turned to
see if Mr. Van Degen shared her disapproval. But Mr. Van Degen had
disappeared, and Undine, leaning forward, nervously touched Mabel's arm.

"What's the matter. Undine? Don't you see Mr. Marvell over there? Is
that his sister he's with?"

"No.--I wouldn't beckon like that," Undine whispered between her teeth.

"Why not? Don't you want him to know you're here?"

"Yes--but the other people are not beckoning."

Mabel looked about unabashed. "Perhaps they've all found each other.
Shall I send Harry over to tell him?" she shouted above the blare of the
wind instruments.

"NO!" gasped Undine as the curtain rose.

She was no longer capable of following the action on the stage. Two
presences possessed her imagination: that of Ralph Marvell, small,
unattainable, remote, and that of Mabel Lipscomb, near-by, immense and
irrepressible.

It had become clear to Undine that Mabel Lipscomb was ridiculous. That
was the reason why Popple did not come to the box. No one would care to
be seen talking to her while Mabel was at her side: Mabel, monumental
and moulded while the fashionable were flexible and diaphanous, Mabel
strident and explicit while they were subdued and allusive. At the
Stentorian she was the centre of her group--here she revealed herself
as unknown and unknowing. Why, she didn't even know that Mrs. Peter Van
Degen was not Ralph Marvell's sister! And she had a way of trumpeting
out her ignorances that jarred on Undine's subtler methods. It was
precisely at this point that there dawned on Undine what was to be one
of the guiding principles of her career: "IT'S BETTER TO WATCH THAN TO
ASK QUESTIONS."

The curtain fell again, and Undine's eyes flew back to the Van Degen
box. Several men were entering it together, and a moment later she saw
Ralph Marvell rise from his seat and pass out. Half-unconsciously she
placed herself in such a way as to have an eye on the door of the box.
But its handle remained unturned, and Harry Lipscomb, leaning back
on the sofa, his head against the opera cloaks, continued to breathe
stentorously through his open mouth and stretched his legs a little
farther across the threshold...

The entr'acte was nearly over when the door opened and two gentlemen
stumbled over Mr. Lipscomb's legs. The foremost wa