I think, among the confused thoughts and feelings that whirled ceaselessly around and around in his brain, the one that came up oftenest and stayed longest was a sense of stoical heroism. For Cicely's sake he must bear his anguish. For her he must be humble, kindly, patient. He had read, somewhere in his scattered acquaintance with books, that Abraham Lincoln had once been brought to the point of suicide through a disappointment in love. And to-night he thought much and deeply of Lincoln. He had already decided, during an emotionally turbulent two days, not to shoot himself. During the first intermission the Senator stayed quietly in his seat. When the curtain went down for the second time, he stroked his beard with a small, none-too-steady hand, coughed in the suppressed way he had, and glanced once or twice at Madame. The young men were, apparently all of them, moving out for a smoke in the lobby. Henry, with a tingling sense of defiance, a little selfconscious about staying alone with the girls, followed them. And after him, walking up the aisle with his odd strutting air of importance, came the Senator. He gathered the young men together in the lobby; pulled at his twisted beard; said, 'It will give me pleasure to offer you young gentlemen a little refreshment;' and led the way out to a convenient bar. It was a large, high-panelled room. There were great mirrors; rows and rows of bottles and shiny glasses; alcoves with tables; and enormous oil paintings in still more enormous gilt frames and lighted by special fixtures built out from the wall. The one over the bar exhibited an undraped female figure reclining on a couch. They stood, a jolly group, naming their drinks. Henry, who had no taste for liquor, stood apart, pale, sober, struggling to exhibit a _savoir faire_ that had no existence in his mercurial nature. 'I'll take ginger ale,' he said, in painful self-consciousness. The Senator, his somewhat jaunty straw hat thrust back a little way off his forehead, took Scotch; drank it neat. It seemed to Henry incongruous when the prim little man tossed the liquor back against his palate with a long-practised flourish. Back in his seat, between Madame and the girl from Omaha, Henry noted that the Senator had not returned with the others. Madame turned and looked up the aisle. The lights were dimmed. The curtain rose. Cicely was in the row ahead, Herb on one side, Elbow on the other. Elbow was calm, casual, humorous in a way, whispering phrases that had been found amusing by many girls. Herb, the only man in what Henry still thought of as a 'full dress suit,' had a way of turning his head and studying Cicely's hair and profile whenever she turned toward Elbow, that stirred Henry to anguish. 'He's rich,' thought Henry, twisting in his chair, clasping and unclasping his hands. 'He's rich. He can do everything for her. And he loves her. He couldn't look that way if he didn't.'