His program informed him that the first part of the evening would be occupied by choral singing, and he settled himself on a spartan chair to await, with what patience he might, the turn of the soloists. There were ten choirs on the program; at least two hours of it, he reckoned, but Mr. Chown was no quitter and the zeal of the conductors and the rusticity of the choirs’ clothing might be trusted to afford him some amusement. And yet he flagged; the monotony was drugging him, and the Wheatsheaf had done him very well.... Had he slept? That was the question he asked himself as he saw the girl. Had he slept through the choral and perhaps half of the solo singing? He sat up sharply, and, as he did so, realized that a full choir was on the platform. But his first impression had been that the girl was alone, and, even now, he found it difficult to see that there were thirty-nine other people with her. She eclipsed them. “She’s got it,” he prevented himself with difficulty from shouting aloud--and Mr. Chown was no easy prey to enthusiasm. Still, a girl who could wipe out thirty-nine other people, who could glow uniquely in a crowd! “Put her on a stage,” he was thinking, “and they’ll feel her to the back row of the gallery.” He noted as additional facts, accidentals but fortifying, that she had youth and good looks. He tried, honestly, to fix his attention on a large-headed man in the choir who had a red handkerchief stuck into his shirt-front, and a made-up tie that had wandered below his ear. The fellow was richly droll, but it was no use: the girl drew him back to her. He tried again, with an earnest spinsterish lady who looked strong-minded enough for anything: and the girl had him in the fraction of a minute. “She’ll do,” he thought--“if she hasn’t got religion,” he added ruefully. “Number seven--Staithley Bridge Choral Society,” he read on his program. That was a simplification, anyhow: the girl must live in Staithley. They were the home choir, Staithley’s own, and the applause was long, detaining them in embarrassed acknowledgment on a platform they vehemently wished to quit, but Mr. Chown, making for the pass-door under cover of the applause, observed that there was no embarrassment about the girl. “Um,” he thought, “no nerves. They’re better with them. Well, one can’t have everything.” At the pass-door, a steward stood sentinel. “Press,” said Mr. Chown with aplomb, using an infallible talisman, and the sentinel made way for him.