She demurred faintly. She was unused to wine with her meals, she said; Joe had old-fashioned ideas about women and wine, and so on; but in the end they shared the bottle equally, and the holiday took a new lease of life. Night set in before they finished. The river went black and mysterious, the shipping lights winked forth like glow-worms, and the illuminated walking beam of a ferry-boat minced a fantastic progress from shore to shore. The sometime home of the ex-King of Spain flowered within and without with electricity, and life simplified itself to cakes and ale. From the steps they watched their hansom detach itself from the long line of yellow-eyed monsters waiting in the outer gloom. "It must end now," sighed Mrs. Hilliard. "There's the theatre,--why not? New York is so big." "I must not." "Nothing heavy. Say burlesque or vaudeville?" "If I dared--" Shelby put her in the hansom and gave the driver the name of a music hall. The lights of the theatrical district charmed the last prudent doubt away. There was a moment's embarrassment at the ticket-office. The little theatre they had chosen enjoyed a considerable vogue, and the man at the window could offer nothing less than a box. Shelby was staggered, but recalling his affluence, flirted a bill through the opening and neglected to count his change. Not until the usher had brought them to their box did Mrs. Hilliard comprehend the situation. She whispered, "Oh, Ross!" hesitated an instant, then entering, laid aside her wraps under the opera glass inquisition invited by her blond hair. "How could you?" she murmured, as the house darkened. "I wouldn't back down before that ticket-seller with you there behind looking so handsome and swell." "We should never have come." Shelby caught her fingers in a reassuring squeeze. "Don't you worry," he enjoined. "This isn't the Grand Opera House of New Babylon."