As he spoke, the curtain was falling on the tragic termination of _Madama Butterfly_. The Newberrys and their guests rose as the curtain fell, and Stainton held her cloak for Muriel. Newberry was gasping his way into his own coat, and Holt was holding for Mrs. Newberry a gorgeous Japanese kimono absurdly reminiscent of the opera to which they had not listened; but Muriel's cloak was a simple and beautiful garment in Stainton's eyes, a grey garment lined with satin of the colour of old-fashioned roses. As she got into it--"Oh, it's quite easy," she said--his awkward hand was brushed by her cheek, and he bent his head, certain of being unobserved in that hurry to depart wherewith the average American opera-audience expresses its opinion of the average operatic performance, and inhaled the perfume of her hair. His hands shook. With Holt he saw their hosts to their motor. "Aren't you coming home with us for supper?" asked Mrs. Newberry. But Holt, who was abominably curious, wished to quiz Stainton, and Stainton, with the wisdom of his years, knew that enough had been done for an initial evening. "No, thanks," Stainton allowed Holt to say; "we've just met after five years, you know, and we've got no end of things to talk about." Ethel Newberry leaned forward and pressed Stainton's hand. "You will look us up soon?" she politely enquired. "Indeed, yes," said Stainton. "Always glad to see you," said Newberry. Muriel said nothing, but Stainton pressed warmly the little hand that she unreservedly offered. "Good-night," said Stainton. "Good-night," said Muriel. No, thought Stainton, as he reluctantly turned away with Holt, in spite of her caustic reference to his age, she must be merely an impulsive, innocent girl. He was glad to come to this determination, glad, however, simply because it was what he concluded must be a final answer to a question that had already become annoying. III EN GARDE, MONSIEUR! As the motor swerved away from them, making for the up-channel of Broadway, Holt seized Stainton's arm, and began to pilot him through the crowd. "Now," said he, "will you _please_ tell me what the----" "No," said Stainton, "I won't. Not yet." "But you promised----" "I know that. Only wait until we get to a quieter place than this. You can scarcely expect me to call out such things for all New York to hear." They freed themselves of the whirlpool around the opera-house and began to walk northward. Stainton was looking about him with the eyes of a man that has been for years in prison and has but just returned to his native town. He was not a New Yorker by birth, and he had never known the city well, but he had always loved it and through all his western exile he had dreamed of this triumphal return. He soon seemed to have forgotten the puzzle that he had agreed to explain to his friend.