vements were
blended with the music into one voluptuous chorus--a blaze of colour not
wholly without its artistic significance, and about him an air heavy
with tobacco smoke and perfumes, a throng of moving people, more
women--many more women. A girl spoke to Holderness,--a girl heavily
rouged but not ill-looking, dressed in a blue muslin gown and large
black hat. Holderness bent towards her deferentially. His voice seemed
to take to itself its utmost note of courtesy, he answered her inquiry
pleasantly, and accepted a glance at her programme. The girl looked
puzzled, but they talked together for several moments of casual things.
Then Holderness lifted his hat.

"My friend and I are tired," he said. "We are going to look for a seat."

She bowed and they strolled on down the promenade, finding some chairs
at the further end. The dresses of the women brushed their feet and the
perfume from the clothes was stronger even than the odour from the
clouds of tobacco smoke which hung about the place. Macheson, in whom
were generations of puritanical impulses, found himself shrinking back
in his corner. Holderness turned towards him frowning.

"No superiority, Victor," he said. "These are your fellow-creatures.
Don't look at them as though you'd come down from the clouds."

"It isn't that," Macheson answered, "it's a matter of taste."

"Taste! Rot!" Holderness answered. "The factory girl's hat offends my
taste, but I don't shrink away from her."

A girl, in passing, stumbled against his foot. Holderness stood up as he
apologized.

"I am really very sorry," he said. "No one with feet like mine ought to
sit down in a public place. I hope you haven't torn your dress?"

"It really doesn't matter," the girl answered. "I ought to have looked
where I was going."

"In which case," Holderness remarked, with a laugh, "you could not have
failed to see my feet."

There were two empty chairs at their table. The girl glanced towards
them and hesitated.

"Do you mind if we sit down here for a minute," she asked, "my friend
and I? We are rather tired."

He drew the chairs towards them.

"By all means," he answered courteously. "Your friend does look tired."

The party arranged itself. Holderness called to a waiter and gave an
order.

"My friend and I," he remarked, indicating Macheson, who was fiercely
uncomfortable and struggling hard not to show it, "are disappointed that
we could not get stalls. We wanted to see La Guerrero