hind. But I should hardly have
expected so distinctly a medieval opinion from you."

"Heavens! why not? I sound horribly Bostonian. Am I so hopelessly
advanced that you can credit me with no human sentiments at all?"

"Well, that," said Smith, "was scarcely my thought."

"It sounded very much like it. However, I'm glad if I were mistaken."

"You know very well," said her companion, in a lower voice, "what I
think of you. I think--"

"Oh, but I don't--really," Helen quickly parried. This was getting
hazardous; the conversation must be switched at once. "No matter what
you think of me, you are almost sure to be quite mistaken. But some
things I am willing to confess. And one of them, which may be very
primitive, is this--that just because I myself am not a wild,
tigress-like creature is no indication that I cannot realize how she
would feel. Is it, now?"

Smith said nothing for a long moment.

"I'm very glad that you feel that way about it," he said at last,
rather to himself, however, than to her. And for the rest of the
intermission he hardly spoke.

It was by this time about half-past ten. Here and there in the house a
vacated seat showed that some hopeless and inveterate commuter had felt
the call of his homeward street car or train. Never in Boston can an
entire audience remain to the close of an entertainment; the lure of
the thronging, all-pervading suburb is too strong. Helen, idly
watching the exodus of these prudent or sleepy citizens, heard outside
what might have been the warning bell that called them forth. She
directed Smith's attention to the coincidence.

"They have to go home, you know; and that sounds like the signal they
obey."

"It sounds to me like a fire engine," said her companion.

But further speculation was cut short by the sight of "A Road," where
presently was to be seen the old man who was so oddly mistook for a
"young, budding virgin," and on which soon beat the doubtful rays of
the "blessed sun"--or moon, as the case might be. The intermission
between the last two scenes of the act was a brief one only--the mere
moment required for the rising of a scene curtain upon the banquet hall
of Katherine's father. But during that little interval, two things
came to Smith's notice; the first being the sound of vague noises in
the outside world, and the second the peculiar behavior of a man in
evening clothes at the extreme side of the stage aperture.

The seats which th