The theatre had been arranged for. Mrs. Ledstone's health forbade her being a member of the party, but Mr. Ledstone was ready for an outing. Amy would go; and Mabel Thurseley had been invited to complete the quartette. Amy looked after her father, to Godfrey fell the duty of squiring Miss Thurseley. They had good seats in the dress-circle; Mr. Ledstone, Amy, Mabel, Godfrey--that was the order of sitting. The play was a capital farce. They all got into high spirits, even Amy forgetting to chide herself and content to be happy. Mabel's life was not rich in gaiety; she responded to its stimulus readily. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes grew bright and challenging. She made a new appeal to Godfrey. "I can't let her think me a fool." So he excused his attentions and his pleasure in them. "I suppose you go a lot to the theatre, don't you?" she asked. "I expect you're _blasé_!" "No, I don't go much." "Why not? Don't you care about going alone?" "Now why do you assume I need go alone?" "No, of course you needn't! How silly of me! Do you ever take--ladies?" She was roguish over this question. "Yes, now and then." "Mamma wouldn't let me go alone with a man." "Oh, we don't ask mamma. We just go." "Do you go out somewhere every evening?" "Oh no. I often stay at home, and read--or work." He had said nothing untrue, but it was all one big lie, what he was saying--a colossal misrepresentation of his present life. The picture his last answer raised in her mind--the man alone in his lonely room, reading or working! Poor man, all alone! "We girls get into the way of thinking that bachelors are always gay, but I suppose they're not?" "Indeed they're not." Godfrey's answer was decisive and rather grim. "Or else," she laughed, "they'd never want to marry, would they?" "Anyhow, one gets tired of gaiety and wants something better." His eyes rested on hers for a moment. She blushed a little; and the curtain rose on the second act. "How your mother adores you!" she began at the next interval. "She'd die for you, I think. She says you're the best son in the world, and have never given her any trouble." Godfrey's conscience suffered a twinge--no less for his mother than for himself. "I'm afraid mothers don't know all about their sons, always." "No, I suppose not. But there are some people you know you can trust." "Come, I say, you're making me out too perfect by half!" She laughed. "Oh, I don't accuse you of being a milksop. I don't like milksops, Mr. Godfrey." So she went on, innocently showing her interest and her preference, and in the process making Godfrey feel that his family and himself were accomplices in a great and heinous conspiracy. But there was still time to get out of it, to put an end to it. There were two ways out of it, just two and no more, thought Godfrey. Either she must be told, or there must cease to be anything to tell her.