sterday."

"We shall have to do something for you, Beatrice, soon," he remarked
cheerfully.

A very rare gravity settled for a moment upon her face.

"I wonder, Philip," she said simply. "I thought, a little time ago, it
would be easy enough to care for the right sort of person. Perhaps I am
not really quite so rotten as I thought I was. Here comes Elizabeth.
Let's watch her."

They both leaned a little forward in the box, Philip in a state of
beatific wonder, which turned soon to amazement when, at Elizabeth's
first appearance, the house suddenly rose, and a torrent of applause
broke out from the floor to the ceiling. Elizabeth for a moment seemed
dumbfounded. The fact that the news of what had happened that afternoon
could so soon have become public property had not occurred to either her
or Philip. Then a sudden smile of comprehension broke across her face.
With understanding, however, came a momentary embarrassment. She looked a
little pathetically at the great audience, then laughed and glanced at
Philip, seated now well back in the box. Many of them followed her gaze,
and the applause broke out again. Then there was silence. She paused
before she spoke the first words of her part.

"Thank you so much," she said quietly.

It was a queer little episode. Beatrice gripped Philip's hand as she drew
her chair back to his. There were tears in her eyes.

"How they love her, these people! And fancy their knowing about it,
Philip, already! You ought to have shown yourself as the happy
bridegroom. They were all looking up here. I wonder why men are so shy.
I'm glad I have my new frock on.... Fancy being married only a few hours
ago! Tell me how you are feeling, can't you, Philip? You sit there
looking like a sphinx. You are happy, aren't you?"

"Happier, I think, than any man has a right to be," he answered, his eyes
watching Elizabeth's every movement.

As the play proceeded, his silence only deepened. He went behind at the
end of each act and spent a few stolen moments with Elizabeth. Life was a
marvellous thing, indeed. Every pulse and nerve in his body was tingling
with happiness. And yet, as he lingered for a moment in the vestibule of
the theatre, before going back to his box at the commencement of the last
act, he felt once more that terrible wave of depression, the ghostly
uprising of his old terrors even in this supreme moment. He looked down
from the panorama of flaring sky-signs into the faces of the pas