To-night a third voice had joined in the debate. It said: "Love is not entirely a matter of twin souls and divine passion: it has a very material side. Life is short; we live but once: it is given to few to encounter their affinity in this world: it is foolish to waste one's youth waiting for a thing which may not exist. Why not be practical? Why not cut the Gordian knot? Marry some nice pretty girl, with no nonsense about her, and have done with it. Then you will have a comfortable home and a loyal mate, and be able to turn out some decent work." Thousands of men, and tens of thousands of women, have debated this problem in their time; but Philip did not know this. We are apt to think that our own human experiences are unique. Suddenly Sylvia turned to him. Her dark eyes were full of reproach. "Philip, you are not listening a bit. This next song ought to be lovely." Philip, apologetically conning the programme, recognised therein the name of a great singer--the latest recruit to the variety stage--who, having achieved a European reputation as the leading operatic baritone of his day, had abandoned that strenuous calling in the zenith of his drawing powers in order to earn an ambassadorial income by singing selections from his repertoire--which means the hackneyed ballads beloved of the British Public--for some fifteen minutes _per diem_. Presently the great man appeared. He began with the Toreador's song from "Carmen," which set heads nodding and toes beating time. Then came "O Star of Eve"; and last of all, "I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby." Struck by an unwonted stillness at his side, Philip glanced at Sylvia. Her effervescence was gone. With a child's instant susceptibility to external influences her mood had changed: she was raptly drinking in the limpid notes that came floating to her through the smoke-laden atmosphere of the Arena Palace of Varieties. A humorous remark from Derek Rayner fell upon unheeding ears. Her eyes shone, her breath came quickly; her flower-like face was alight with tender enthusiasm. _"And all my song shall strive to wake Sweet wonder in thine eyes!"_ crooned the singer. Certainly he had achieved his purpose in one case, Philip thought. _"To cheat thee of a sigh! To charm thee to a tear!"_ The words died away to nothingness in the absolute stillness of the great audience. Then, after a brief interval, came the applause, in mighty gusts. But during that interval Philip had had time to hear the sound of a long tremulous sigh close beside him. "My reason has been saved at the eleventh hour," said Mr. Mablethorpe gratefully. "Talking of the eleventh hour, shall we go home? Nothing but the cinematograph now!" But Sylvia insisted upon seeing the programme out. Accordingly the party sat on, what time such of the audience as still remained were plunged into darkness and a flickering travesty of life in the American backwoods was thrown upon the screen. First came the announcement:--