A melodrama was being shown: some of the scenery was superb—a forest at dawn, a cool reach of some river with sunlit woods about its banks, the spreading lawns of a great mansion blotched with the silhouettes of stately trees. The dazzling luxury of the interiors, the perfection of their appointment, the admirable manner of the men-servants, the smooth rush of the cars turned the fruit of memory into the grapes of Tantalus. Ann sat dumb before the cruelty of Fate. It was true, then—she was to be spared nothing. Every slender tack that could be hammered was to be driven home—punched into her heart. She had a terrible yearning to express her agony. She wanted to moan and twist her hands. She wanted to fall upon her knees and clasp her head. She wanted to breathe “My God. . . . My God. . . . My God. . . .” She wanted to stammer her woe—change this fantastic hell into the similitude of human sorrow—picture it in words and tears—wrap it in the napkin of blessed, familiar speech. Bob was importuning her. “Give us a kiss, sweetheart.” Fainting, she gave him her lips. “Now, then, break away, there,” rasped an attendant. “If you can’t wait, there’s plenty of room outside.” It was not the man’s fault. Complaints had been received and forwarded. Orders had come down that morning that any abuse of the obscurity indispensable to the performance was to be sternly checked. It was, of course, rather a delicate matter. Custom, if not prescription, was to be set by the ears. Still, the remark was well received—with hysterical laughter. A wave of hot blood surged to Ann’s temples. Her mind staggered. When she came to, she found herself praying for death. The reflection that a week ago Bob would not have—had not done these things preened its grim self before her. Ann realized suddenly that familiarity was breeding assurance, if not contempt. From being ‘my lady’ she had become ‘my—my missus.’ More. For the first time since their engagement Bob was among his own. Hitherto he had been upon parade. Now he was relaxed—comfortable. His own had received him. He was sliding into their ways—naturally. It was not a case of infection, of evil communications corrupting manners. They were his—_his_ ways. Of course. His ways. He saw no harm—there _was_ no harm in them. They were wholesome enough. Only—they were not her ways. . . . The melodrama came to an end, and they filed out. The sheet had announced an interval of fifteen minutes. The _salle de danse_ was crowded. They thrust and were thrust within its walls. Bob could not dance. Mr. Alcock, however, was clearly treading firm ground. The assurance with which he spoke made this still more manifest. “Em I to ’ave the pleasure, Leddy Enn?” What did it matter? What did anything—— Besides, how could she refuse?