The third scene was a Fete Champetre after Watteau at sunset. Parterres of lavender and carnations bloomed at the base of statues that gradually disappeared in shadow as the sunset yielded to crimson lanterns. The scene was a harmony of gray and rose and tarnished silver. Love himself wore a vizard, and the dances were very slow and stately. The leisured progress of the scene gave Jenny her first opportunity to scan the audience. She saw a clear-cut face, dead white in the blue haze that hung over the stalls. She was conscious of an interest suddenly aroused, of an interest more profound than anything within her experience. For the first time the width of the orchestra seemed no barrier to intercourse. She felt she had only to lean gently forward from her place in the line to touch that unknown personality. She checked the impulse of greeting, but danced the rest of the movement as she had not danced for many months, with a joyful grace. When the _tempo di minuetto_ had quickened to the _pas seul_ of a Ballerina and the stage was still, Jenny stood far down in the corner nearest to the audience. Here, very close to the blaze of the footlights, the auditorium loomed almost impenetrable to eyes on the stage, but the man in the stalls, as if aware that she had lost him, struck a match. She saw his face flickering and, guided by the orange point of a cigar, whispered to Elsie Crauford, who was standing next to her: "See that fellow in evening dress in the stalls?" "Which one?" "The one with the cigar--now--next to the fat man fanning himself. See? I bet you I get off with him to-night." "You think everybody's gazing at you," murmured Elsie. "No, I don't. But he is." "Only because he can see you're making eyes at him." "Oh, I'm not." "Besides, how do you know? He isn't waving his programme nor nothing." "No; but he'll be waiting by the stage-door." "I thought you didn't care for fellows in evening dress," said Elsie. "Well, can't you see any difference between that fellow and your Willie?" "No, I can't." "Fancy," said Jenny mockingly. The Ballerina's final pose was being sustained amid loud applause. The ballet-master began to count the steps for the final movement. The stage manager's warning had sounded. The curtain fell, and eighty girls hurried helter-skelter to their rooms in order to change for the last scene. "All down, ladies," cried the call-boy, and downstairs they trooped.