"Monsieur--they are----?" She did not complete the sentence, but her shoulders conveyed her meaning. He smiled sadly. "They are," he said. She sighed sympathetically. "Poor gentlemen!" she murmured. After that the comedians sang a duet, the words of which dealt with marital infidelity, that screamingly funny subject on which the stage of to-day builds its humorous efforts. Once the verse ended with an innuendo so crude that a gathering of navvies might have resented it. There was a laugh and a gasp from the audience--then wild applause; the song could not go on for the riot of appreciation. One of the comedians (who had sung it only three hundred and fifteen times) tried to commence the next verse, but was suddenly overcome with laughter himself. The guffaws became a barrage; then, as the other singer turned abruptly about, his shoulders heaving convulsively, the din grew to drum-fire and was deafening. How richly humorous! It was really too much! People held their sides and gasped for breath.--"Have you seen _Oh Aunt_? My dear, it is _too_ killing for words." Up in the gallery one man sat with an unsmiling face. He was a wounded Tommy who had been blown from a ditch to the top of a barn, and from the barn to another ditch. He had had his fill of slapstick comedy. When the song was over there were shrieks of forced, girlish laughter, and nearly forty young women in various stages of dishabille rushed on the stage, exhibiting to a critical audience the charms and the defects of their forty individual forms. The producer had been both daring and sparing. He was a second-rate burlesque manager in New York, but London, that great haven for American mediocrity, recognized his genius, and gave him a chance. He knew the value of a chorus, and how to get the best out of them--oh, he knew! "Monsieur." The officer turned slowly and looked at the girl beside him. Her face was flushed and her eyes stared at the ground. "Yes, little one?" "Please--take me away." Without questioning her further, he reached for his cap, and amid the wondering glances of the people around, they left the theater. He paused in the foyer and put on his gloves. "I am sorry, Pippa," he said gravely. Her hand stole soothingly into his arm, and both of them, unknown to each other, experienced a feeling that he was the younger of the two. After all, every woman is a potential mother, and men are only boys grown serious; so she comforted him with the touch of her hand, and--perhaps it was the natural contraction in putting on the glove--his arm pressed hers tight to his side. And though he was a man, he understood. It is not precept or preaching that teaches it. Modesty in a girl is instinctive; and the little lady from the mill-house had known no other teacher than instinct. Outside the theater an attendant was changing the performance number of _Oh Aunt!_ from 316 to 317. X