She hurried downstairs. To her astonishment there was no light in Invern's room. She shook the door. It was locked. She flared-up at once. Her watch told her that she hadn't been dressing more than a quarter of an hour--a generous fifteen or twenty minutes. This looked like a planned insult. Were those two boys jealous because Mr. Godard had invited her? Thoroughly ruffled she marched through the drawing-room determined to go for a walk, when she heard Paul's voice: "Miss Brandès, Miss Brandès. Come to this door, the car is waiting." Aglow, his handsome face betrayed his joy at having her near him. She looked blank. "Oh! Invern and Stone have gone on the job, as they put it. I presume to some theatre or concert. But," he lightly assured her, not without a tinge of malice, "I think they are both huffed because they can't come along with us." Easter didn't pause. In the car speeding under a frosty moon, she said: "Of course, they are mad. There is no opera or theatre to write about tonight. They are quite free. That was an excuse." "Aren't some men small potatoes?" cried Paul as he cuddled as closely as he dared. V ... Ulick went with Stone to the opera, but he didn't enjoy himself. It was repetition night of "Les Huguenots" with the celebrated cast: Melba, Nordica, the two De Reszkes, Maurel, Plançon; but Meyerbeer --who was surely a syndicate--had ceased to interest the young man. His companion seldom sat in the "Chanticleer's" seats, consoling himself with cigarettes in the press-room. Ulick wandered about the lobby dodging De Vivo and other ghosts from the musical past who could give you all the famous casts of the opera since it was produced. He chatted with Max Hirsh and Tom Bull, shook Maurice Grau by the hand and no longer able to endure the heated house he strolled out into Broadway and irresolutely stood at the corner. A drinking man would have passed the time more agreeably; neither a smoker nor a drinker he was bored to death. Past eleven o'clock and nowhere to go but home. Why not? Tomorrow was to be a busy day. He had to write his Sunday screed. Ibsen again. No one else to write about. The New York theatre was simply disgusting. Poor plays reeking with greasy sensuality thinly varnished with sloppy sentimentality. That's your theatre-goer for you, he said to himself as he slowly walked down Broadway to 25th Street; either filth or tears, or both. But, then, sentimental souls are only one remove from sensuality; they call it "sensuousness" in fiction, but it's plain, everyday eroticism. I wonder what that girl is doing now? It was like an aching nerve, this question.