“Don't be silly.” Gerald took refuge in pathos. “Good God! It's tough! Here am I, worried to death, and you...” Before he could finish the sentence, Sally's mood had undergone one of those swift changes which sometimes made her feel that she must be lacking in character. A simple, comforting thought had come to her, altering her entire outlook. She had come off the train tired and gritty, and what seemed the general out-of-jointness of the world was entirely due, she decided, to the fact that she had not had a bath and that her hair was all anyhow. She felt suddenly tranquil. If it was merely her grubby and dishevelled condition that made Gerald seem to her so different, all was well. She put her hand on his with a quick gesture of penitence. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “I've been a brute, but I do sympathize, really.” “I've had an awful time,” mumbled Gerald. “I know, I know. But you never told me you were glad to see me.” “Of course I'm glad to see you.” “Why didn't you say so, then, you poor fish? And why didn't you ask me if I had enjoyed myself in Europe?” “Did you enjoy yourself?” “Yes, except that I missed you so much. There! Now we can consider my lecture on foreign travel finished, and you can go on telling me your troubles.” Gerald accepted the invitation. He spoke at considerable length, though with little variety. It appeared definitely established in his mind that Providence had invented Spanish influenza purely with a view to wrecking his future. But now he seemed less aloof, more open to sympathy. The brief thunderstorm had cleared the air. Sally lost that sense of detachment and exclusion which had weighed upon her. “Well,” said Gerald, at length, looking at his watch, “I suppose I had better be off.” “Rehearsal?” “Yes, confound it. It's the only way of getting through the day. Are you coming along?” “I'll come directly I've unpacked and tidied myself up.” “See you at the theatre, then.” Sally went out and rang for the lift to take her up to her room. 2 The rehearsal had started when she reached the theatre. As she entered the dark auditorium, voices came to her with that thin and reedy effect which is produced by people talking in an empty building. She sat down at the back of the house, and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, was able to see Gerald sitting in the front row beside a man with a bald head fringed with orange hair whom she took correctly to be Mr. Bunbury, the producer. Dotted about the house in ones and twos were members of the company whose presence was not required in the first act. On the stage, Elsa Doland, looking very attractive, was playing a scene with a man in a bowler hat. She was speaking a line, as Sally came in. “Why, what do you mean, father?” “Tiddly-omty-om,” was the bowler-hatted one's surprising reply. “Tiddly-omty-om... long speech ending in 'find me in the library.' And exit,” said the man in the bowler hat, starting to do so.