The men came in then, and she offered an exhibition. “I’ll show you the dance I’m going to do in the Fresh Air Fund Bazaar. You play, Li; go over this music while I get ready,” and she disappeared for a long time. Lionel sat down at the piano and began obediently to try the music she had handed him; a sensual, banal thing, called new, but very reminiscent. He turned his head to smile at Frankie, and then gave his attention to the music, innocently satisfied with the answering smile he had had from her. The light from the lamp shone on his sleek head; he looked so young, so very slim, so fragile and well-bred; her heart ached for him in his unconscious shame. Of course, _of course_, he didn’t realise! She no more despised him than a mother despises a greedy child. Julie came back in a costume which completed Frankie’s nightmare of misery and shame. She called it Hindu. Her slim legs and feet were bare, and her body so gauzily covered.... Frances involuntarily glanced at her husband, but he was staring up at the smoke rings he was blowing. Her dancing was good--quite beautiful. But Frances was not an artist, not an æsthete; she was something of a prig and very much of a Defoe. A little--a tiny bit more of either in her nature would have turned the balance and sent her to her feet in terrible indignation. However, she was able to endure the exhibition with apparent coolness, watched the half-naked Julie twisting supplely before Lionel’s eyes without a visible trace of what she felt. But how immeasurably glad she was to get away! “Please send away the taxi,” she asked Lionel. “I’d like to walk a little way. And talk to you.” Cheerful and unsuspicious, he complied. “Wonderful night!” he remarked, looking with grateful eyes at the river. She clutched his arm. “Oh, Lionel!” she cried, and he was startled to hear a sob in her voice. “What’s wrong, dearest girl?” he asked anxiously, trying to see her face in the dark. “That awful--that dreadful, disgusting woman----” she said, in a broken voice. “Oh, Lionel! You can’t imagine!...” “Did she say anything to upset you, old girl?” “It’s not that---- It’s ... I didn’t know----” She dried her eyes and spoke more calmly, all her courage, all her pride, all her love impelling her. She held out the ring, glittering marvellously in the light of a street lamp. He stared at it in stupefaction. “Frances!” he cried. “Please take it! Lionel! My dear boy! I couldn’t wear it.... She said--_he_ had to pay for it. That it’s all _his_ money.... Oh, my dear old Lionel, don’t you see? I’ll wait--till you can get me one--of your own!” Regardless of passers-by, he put his arm about her waist. “Frankie,” he said, “I’ll do exactly what you want--always. I know I’m not nearly good enough for you. Only tell me what you want me to do.” “I want you to be a _man_!” she cried passionately, and began to cry again. CHAPTER FIFTEEN I