When Mr. Worthington bent over from the suspending strap to ask, “You are quite sure your husband is at Martin’s?” she answered with her bright, upward glance, “Oh, yes, quite sure!” He would be at a little round table, with John and Agnes Atterbury, in the red-carpeted room, looking out for her, and how glad they would be to see her! She dashed up the steps ahead of the Worthingtons, and a waiter came deferentially forward. Why should her heart suddenly fail her when she stood looking in upon the lighted scene? “I’m looking for my husband,” said Mrs. Gibbons. She dashed from one doorway to another, peering in. “No, he isn’t here—perhaps in the other room—I don’t see him here either. It’s very strange, _very_!” “What is it Madame desires?” The head waiter was following her rushing movements. “I’m looking for my husband”—in full torrent of explanation her tone had grown louder. “He came here a little while ago.” She paused, suddenly aware of a whisper sibilating around. “She’s looking for her husband.” Several people stopped eating. The head waiter regarded her suspiciously. “Was Monsieur alone?” “No, oh, no!” said Mrs. Gibbons with eager candour. “No, indeed! There was a lady——” “Aa—h!” said the head waiter. “Monsieur was with another lady!” An embarrassing murmur of interest made itself felt. He fixed her with a placating eye, as he added, hurriedly, “But Monsieur, as Madame perceives, is not here. He exists not. If the carriage of Madame”—he stopped happily—“But behold now the friends of Madame!” The wild blaze of happiness died down almost as suddenly as it had risen in Mrs. Gibbons’ breast, as she turned to see the Worthingtons advancing decorously once more to her rescue. Her bright hopes were buried in ashes. “Oh, I don’t know what to do,” she breathed. “He isn’t here after all—_he isn’t here_!” “Will you not go on with us to the opera?” asked Mrs. Worthington. “We would be very glad to have you. We did not care to get in for the first act.” “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that—you’re so very kind—but I couldn’t really. I must get home at once. Mr. Gibbons will go home early. I want to go home.” “We will then, of course, return with you,” said Mr. Worthington, resignedly. “Oh, please, _please_ don’t! It isn’t at all necessary. I _couldn’t_ have you do it. I know the way now, and—please don’t!” “Mr. Worthington will not allow you to go home alone,” said his wife, with polite weariness of the subject. “The next train does not leave until ten o’clock. Of course, if you really wish so much to return—although Mr. Gibbons is not at all likely to get back before we would—do not hesitate out of consideration for us or _our_ convenience. But I think you would enjoy the opera.” Mrs. Gibbons stood unhappily irresolute. How could she drag these people home with her, much as she now longed to get there? If they would _only_ let her go alone! After all, if Arnold were off having a good time, why shouldn’t she be gay and have a good time, too?