On the evening of the opera he had remained with his grandfather until the latter’s early hour for retiring. Then he came downstairs and tried to read, but soon threw down his book and went out. He harnessed the horse to the buggy and drove out of the yard with no definite destination in mind. The horse, perhaps from force of habit, turned east along the main road. Later that main road became the main road of Harniss. By that time Bob had decided to go to the town hall--never mind why; he, himself, was not certain. He left the horse and buggy at the local livery stable. It was after eight when he climbed the steps of the hall. The curtain had risen and there was “standing room only,” so the ticket seller told him. He crowded in behind a double row of other standees at the rear of the ranks of benches and remained there, looking and listening, to the bitter end. It was bitter. When she made her first entrance and smiled in pleased surprise at the applause which greeted her, he began to suffer the pangs of self-torture. The sight of her, beautiful, charming, the sound of her voice, the zest with which she played her part--all these were like poisoned arrows to him. If she had shown the least evidence of the misery she should have felt, which he was feeling--but she did not. To all outward appearance she was happy, she was enjoying herself. She had forgotten him entirely. And the tender looks which she bestowed upon Seymour Covell as her sailor lover were altogether too convincing. Those love scenes which Bob had resentfully remembered when she told him Covell was to play _Rackstraw_ were far worse in their portrayal than in his fancy. A dozen times he was on the point of leaving the hall, but he did not leave; he remained and saw and suffered. Furiously jealous, utterly wretched, he stood there until the curtain fell. Then he hurried out into the night, eager to get away from her, from the crowd, from everybody--from his own thoughts, if that were possible. It was not, of course. At first he started toward the stable where he had left the Cook horse and buggy. Half-way there he changed his mind and, leaving the main road, turned down the lower road until he came to the beach. He was in no hurry to get back to Denboro. His grandfather was sure to be awake and expecting him and ready for questions and conversation. He would have to tell where he had been and, if he mentioned the “Pinafore” performance, that would have to be described in detail. He simply could not talk about it now, that evening, and he would not. The memory of the final tableau, with Esther and Covell in close embrace, was--was-- If he could only forget it! If he could forget her!