e
nearness of this piece of scenery. It was almost too realistic, and
yet it had a horrible fascination for Felicia as she sat there
alone, buried back in a cushioned seat and absorbed in thoughts that
went far beyond the dialogue on the stage.

From the tenement scene the play shifted to the interior of a
nobleman's palace, and almost a sigh of relief went up all over the
house at the sight of the accustomed luxury of the upper classes.
The contrast was startling. It was brought about by a clever piece
of staging that allowed only a few moments to elapse between the
slum and the palace scene. The dialogue went on, the actors came and
went in their various roles, but upon Felicia the play made but one
distinct impression. In realty the scenes on the bridge and in the
slums were only incidents in the story of the play, but Felicia
found herself living those scenes over and over. She had never
philosophized about the causes of human misery, she was not old
enough she had not the temperament that philosophizes. But she felt
intensely, and this was not the first time she had felt the contrast
thrust into her feeling between the upper and the lower conditions
of human life. It had been growing upon her until it had made her
what Rose called "queer," and other people in her circle of wealthy
acquaintances called very unusual. It was simply the human problem
in its extreme of riches and poverty, its refinement and its
vileness, that was, in spite of her unconscious attempts to struggle
against the facts, burning into her life the impression that would
in the end either transform her into a woman of rare love and
self-sacrifice for the world, or a miserable enigma to herself and
all who knew her.

"Come, Felicia, aren't you going home?" said Rose. The play was
over, the curtain down, and people were going noisily out, laughing
and gossiping as if "The Shadows of London" were simply good
diversion, as they were, put on the stage so effectively.

Felicia rose and went out with the rest quietly, and with the
absorbed feeling that had actually left her in her seat oblivious of
the play's ending. She was never absent-minded, but often thought
herself into a condition that left her alone in the midst of a
crowd.

"Well, what did you think of it?" asked Rose when the sisters had
reached home and were in the drawing-room. Rose really had
considerable respect for Felicia's judgment of a play.

"I thought it was a pretty fair pic