When Gertrude White did appear--she came in unexpectedly--he almost uttered a cry: and it would have been a cry of delight. For there was a flesh and blood woman, a thousand times more interesting, and beautiful, and lovable than all his fancied pictures of her. Look how she walks--how simply and gracefully she takes off her hat and places it on the table! Look at the play of light, and life, and gladness on her face--at the eloquence of her eyes! He had been thinking of her eyes as too calmly observant and serious: he saw them now, and was amazed at the difference--they seemed to have so much clear light in them, and pleasant laughter. He did not fear at all that she should see him. She was so near--he wished he could take her hand and lead her away. What concern had these people around with her? This was Gertrude White--whom he knew. She was a friend of Mrs. Ross's; she lived in a quiet little home, with an affectionate and provoking sister; she had a great admiration for Oscar the collie; she had the whitest hand in the world as she offered you some salad at the small, neat table. What was she doing here--amidst all this glaring sham--before all these people? "_Come away quickly!_" his heart cried to her. "_Quick--quick--let us get away together: there is some mistake--some illusion: outside you will breathe the fresh air, and get into the reality of the world again; and you will ask about Oscar, and young Ogilvie: and one might hold your hand--your real warm hand--and perhaps hold it tight, and not give it up to any one whatsoever!_" His own hand was trembling with excitement. The eagerness of delight with which he listened to every word uttered by the low-toned and gentle voice was almost painful; and yet he knew it not. He was as one demented. This was Gertrude White--speaking, walking, smiling, a fire of beauty in her clear eyes; her parted lips when she laughed letting the brilliant light just touch for an instant the milk-white teeth. This was no pale Rose Leaf at all--no dream or vision--but the actual laughing, talking, beautiful woman, who had more than ever of that strange grace and witchery about her that had fascinated him when first he saw her. She was so near that he could have thrown a rose to her--a red rose, full blown and full scented. He forgave the theatre--or rather he forgot it--in the unimaginable delight of being so near her. And when at length she left the stage, he had no jealousy of the poor people who remained there to go through their marionette business. He hoped they might all become great actors and actresses. He even thought he would try to get to understand the story--seeing he should have nothing else to do until Gertrude White came back again.