His inquiry, loud-voiced and not entirely coherent, received at first scant attention from the usher to whom he addressed himself. They were directed to their places at last, however. The house was in darkness, and with the music Edith forgot, for a time, the slight shock which she had received. The opera was Samson et Dalila, and a very famous tenor was making his reappearance after a long absence. Edith gave herself up to complete enjoyment of the music. Then suddenly she was startled by a yawn at her side. Burton was sitting back, his hands in his pockets, his mouth wide-open. "Mr. Burton!" she exclaimed softly. He had the grace to sit up. "Long-winded sort of stuff, this," he pronounced, in an audible whisper. She felt a cold shiver of apprehension. As she saw him lounging there beside her, her thoughts seemed to go back to the day when she had looked with scornful disdain at that miserable picnic-party of trippers, who drank beer out of stone jugs, and formed a blot upon the landscape. Once more she saw the man who stood a little apart, in his loud clothes and common cloth cap, saw him looking into the garden. She began to tremble. What had she done--so nearly done! In spite of herself, the music drew her away again. She even found herself turning towards him once for sympathy. "Isn't it exquisite?" she murmured. He laughed shortly. "Give me The Chocolate Soldier," he declared. "Worth a dozen of this!" Suddenly she realized what had happened. Her anger and resentment faded away. For the first time she wholly and entirely believed his story. For the first time she felt that this miracle had come to pass. She was no longer ashamed of him. She no longer harbored any small feelings of resentment at his ill-bred attitude. A profound sympathy swept up from her heart--sympathy for him, sympathy, too, for herself. When they passed out together she was as sweet to him as possible, though he put on a black bowler hat some time before it was necessary, and though his red handkerchief became very much in evidence. "You will drive me down to Chelsea, won't you?" she begged. "Righto!" he replied. "I'll get one of these chaps to fetch a taxi." He succeeded in obtaining one, gleeful because he had outwitted some prior applicant to whom the cab properly belonged. "Couldn't stop somewhere and have a little supper, could we?" he asked. "I am afraid not," she answered. "It wouldn't be quite the thing." He tried to take her hand. After a moment's hesitation she permitted it. "Mr. Burton," she said softly, "do answer me one question. Did you part with all your beans?" His hand went up to his forehead for a moment. "Yes," he replied, "both of them. I only had two, and it didn't seem worth while keeping one. Got my pockets full of money, too, and they are going to make me a director of Menatogen." "Do you feel any different?" she asked him. He looked at her in a puzzled way and, striking a match, lit a cigarette without her permission.