“Palace Theater, miss.” The conductor’s voice startled her. He helped her down with a curious feeling that she was too young to be out alone. But he was reassured as he saw her move composedly under the lighted awning to the flaring entrance, where the lights shone red in the box-office. She was older than she looked, he decided, as he signaled the driver to go on. Ismay, as the swinging doors closed behind her, stood undecided for a minute. There was a notice facing her: “Stalls, ten shillings. Dress-circle, seven and sixpence. Upper circle, five shillings.” Stalls were out of the question. “One dress-circle,” she said composedly, making her way to the ticket-seller’s window through the groups of men idling in the entrance. Most of them looked at her curiously; her strange beauty and her shabby black clothes contrasted oddly. She read their thoughts as she turned with her ticket in her hand, and her eyes glittered with pride under her long, dark lashes. Yet, as she followed the usher up the stairs to the dress-circle, she walked as one in a dream, and stood for a moment in a sort of daze as she was turned over to the white-capped attendant. The whole house was in darkness except for the lights upon the stage and the constant glimmer of matches, for every one seemed to be smoking, even many of the women in the boxes. Ismay stumbled to her seat still dazed. Was this a theater? Had she spend nearly all of her ten shillings for this? Two badly painted women danced between the verses of a song, and their antics seemed to amuse the crowd. Ismay drew her skirts away from the vicinity of a French hair-dresser as she thought: “If that is all they have to do to earn their livings I could make mine.” Then she started angrily. A common, flashily dressed man beside her had spoken to her. His tone offended her, and she rose and swept past him like an insulted duchess. She walked up the steps to the third gallery, where men and women were seated at small tables, eating olives and drinking liquor. As she emerged into the bright light she stopped and leaned over the balustrade with her beautiful eyes still glowing. “Beast!” she said under her breath, “to dare to speak to me!” A man standing quite near her glanced at her wonderingly, and as she turned she found his eyes upon her. “I beg your pardon,” he said civilly, “but I could not help hearing what you said.” Ismay Trelane lifted her strange eyes and saw a face that, dreaming or waking, would haunt her to the end of her life. Bronzed, gray-eyed, clear-cut--it came near to being the handsomest face in London. Many a woman had turned to look upon it, and some, like Ismay, carried the remembrance forever. Something, she knew not what, made the girl tremble as she answered him. “A man spoke to me,” she said slowly. “You do not think he will come up here, do you?” “I spoke to you, too,” her hearer’s voice was kind but a little puzzled.