Their cab, wheeling into the main thoroughfare, joined in the race of cabs flying as for life toward the East--past the Park, where the trees, new-leafed, were swinging their skirts like ballet-dancers in the wind; past the Stoics' and the other clubs, rattling, jingling, jostling for the lead, shooting past omnibuses that looked cosy in the half-light with their lamps and rows of figures solemnly opposed. At Blafard's the tall dark young waiter took her cloak with reverential fingers; the little wine-waiter smiled below the suffering in his eyes. The same red-shaded lights fell on her arms and shoulders, the same flowers of green and yellow grew bravely in the same blue vases. On the menu were written the same dishes. The same idle eye peered through the chink at the corner of the red blinds with its stare of apathetic wonder. Often during that dinner George looked at her face by stealth, and its expression baffled him, so careless was it. And, unlike her mood of late, that had been glum and cold, she was in the wildest spirits. People looked round from the other little tables, all full now that the season had begun, her laugh was so infectious; and George felt a sort of disgust. What was it in this woman that made her laugh, when his own heart was heavy? But he said nothing; he dared not even look at her, for fear his eyes should show his feeling. '.e ought to be squaring our accounts,' he thought--'looking things in the face. Something must be done; and here she is laughing and making everyone stare!' Done! But what could be done, when it was all like quicksand? The other little tables emptied one by one. “George,” she said, “take me somewhere where we can dance!” George stared at her. “My dear girl, how can I? There is no such place!” “Take me to your Bohemians!” “You can't possibly go to a place like that.” “Why not? Who cares where we go, or what we do?” “I care!” “Ah, my dear George, you and your sort are only half alive!” Sullenly George answered: “What do you take me for? A cad?” But there was fear, not anger, in his heart. “Well, then, let's drive into the East End. For goodness' sake, let's do something not quite proper!” They took a hansom and drove East. It was the first time either had ever been in that unknown land. “Close your cloak, dear; it looks odd down here.” Mrs. Bellew laughed. “You'll be just like your father when you're sixty, George.” And she opened her cloak the wider. Round a barrel-organ at the corner of a street were girls in bright colours dancing. She called to the cabman to stop. “Let's watch those children!” “You'll only make a show of us.” Mrs. Bellew put her hands on the cab door. “I've a good mind to get out and dance with them!” “You're mad to-night,” said George. “Sit still!” He stretched out his arm and barred her way. The passers-by looked curiously at the little scene. A crowd began to collect. “Go on!” cried George.