"Jeannette," Moncreith went on, in his vibrant whisper, "don't you guess what dream I have been living in for so long? Don't you know that it is you, you, you--" He faltered, his emotions outstriding his words. "It is you," he finished, "that spell happiness for me. I--oh, is there no other, less crude way of putting it?--I love you, Jeannette! And you?" He waited. The chattering and light laughter in the stalls and throughout the house seemed to lull into a mere hushed murmur, like the fluttering and twittering of a thousand birds. Moncreith, in his tense expectation, had heed only for the face of the girl beside him. He did not see, in the aisle below, Orson Vane, sauntering to his seat. He did not follow the direction of Jeannette Vanlief's eyes, the instant before she turned, and answered. "I wish you had not spoken. I can't say anything--anything that you would like. Please, please--" She shook her head, in evident distress. "Ah," he burst out, "then it is true, after all, what I have feared. It is true that you prefer that--that--" She stayed him with a quick look. "I did not say I preferred anyone. I simply said that you must consider the question closed. I am sorry, oh, so sorry. I wish a man and a woman could ever be friends, in this world, without risking either love or hate." "All the same," he muttered, fiercely, "I believe you prefer that fellow--" "Orson Vane's downstairs," said the Professor entering the box at that moment. "That damned chameleon!" So Moncreith closed, under his breath, his just interrupted speech. CHAPTER XIV. A little before the end of that performance of "Voltaire," Orson Vane made his way to Arthur Wantage's dressing-room. They had, in their character of men in some position of eminence in different phases of the town's life, a slight acquaintance. They met, now and then, at the Mummers' Club. Vane's position put him above possibility of affront by Wantage in even the most arrogant and mannerless of the latter's moods. Vane's invitation to a little supper, a little chat, and a little smoke, just for the duet of them, brought forth Wantage's most winning smile of acquiescence. "Delighted, dear chap," he vowed. He could be, when he chose, the most winning of mortals. He was, during the drive to Vane's house, an admirable companion. He told stories, he made polite rejoinders, he was all glitter and graciousness. But it was when he was seated to an appetizing little supper that he became most splendid.