Old Mole took up his play and began to read it. It did not interest him, but he could not put it down. There was not a true emotion in it, not a reasonable man or woman, but it was full of surprising tricks and turns and quiddities, was perpetually slopping over from sugary tenderness to shy laughter, and all the false emotions in it were introduced so irrelevantly as never to be thoroughly cloying, and indeed sometimes to give almost that sensation of delighted surprise which comes truly only from the purest and happiest art. Not until it was some moments out of his hands did Old Mole recognize the thing in all its horrid spuriousness. Then he flung it from him, scowled at it, fumed over it, and finally put it away and resolved to think no more about it or of Carlton Timmis. That night when he met Matilda she was in high delight. The "second girl" was ill; her understudy had been called away to the sick bed of her only surviving aunt, and she had been chosen to play the part at a matinée to see if she could do it. Her name would not be on the program, but she would have ten lines to speak and one verse in a quartet to sing, and a dance with the third comedian. Wasn't it splendid? And couldn't they go and have supper at the new hotel just to celebrate it? All the girls were talking about the hotel, and she had never been to a real restaurant. It is hard not to feel generous when you have given away fifty pounds, and Old Mole yielded. They had oysters and grilled kidneys, and they drank champagne. Matilda had never tasted it before and she made a little ceremony of it. It was so pretty (she said), such a lovely color, and the bubbles were so funnily busy. He drank too much of it and became amorous. Matilda was wonderfully pretty and amusing in her excitement, and he could not take his eyes off her. "Tell me," he said, "do you really like this life?" "I love it. It's something like what I've always wanted to be. In some ways it's better and some ways it's worse." "I don't see much of you now." "You like me all the better when you do see me." "We're not getting on much with your education." "Education be blowed." He was distressed and wished she had not said "be blowed." She saw his discomfort and leaned forward and patted his hand. "Don't you fret, my dear. There's a good time coming." But unaccountably he was depressed. He was feeling sorry he had brought her. There was a vulgarity, a sensuousness in the glitter and gilt of the restaurant that sorted ill with what in his heart he felt and was proud to feel for Matilda. He was sorry that she liked it, but saw, too, that she could not help but be pleased since to her it was all novel and dazzling. Hardest of all to bear, he was forced to admit that he had no immediate alternative to lay before her.