He still avoided the front of the box, conscious of his neighbour's eyes, but, now that the danger seemed averted, he felt a mischievous delight. He could picture Cydonia, very correct, in her white frock and string of pearls, with her inevitable "Isn't it nice?" addressed to the somewhat bored parent. And at the thought a slight shame ran through him; the knowledge, too, of all the young girl represented in his somewhat aimless life. But Fantine was addressing him. "Say now, Pierrot, would you mind--instead of going to the Savoy--a picnic supper at my flat?" His face fell, and immediately she added quickly: "We'd leave early--but ... the fact is I can't bear to think of that aggressive band. It seems almost profane to me--after the feast of music here. But of course--if you're hungry?" Her voice pleaded. "I think I've got some foie gras--and a cold tongue--won't that do? And we'd have ... a cosy evening together." "Do?" McTaggart laughed softly, relieved by the saving clause, "Why, I'd infinitely prefer it. One gets so tired of the Savoy." "Good." She slipped her hand sideways and laid it a moment on his knee. "Rather fun, eh, Pierrot?--to play at being Darby and Joan." McTaggart nodded, without speaking. He felt a sudden tinge of excitement, the forerunner of adventure. "We're hardly old enough for that"--mischief was in his laughing eyes--"Why not 'Paul et Virginie?'--brought a little up-to-date." The lights went down. Behind the curtain a bell tolled as if for Mass, cutting through the buzz of chatter, a summons from another world. Then, like a clear call to love, came the sweet sound of Santuzza's voice. Fantine caught a quick breath. The scene to come was significant. For she knew that this night spelled the last of many a happy one with McTaggart. And she wondered ... Would she miss the man? For a second her whole soul recoiled from the task she had set herself: the crisis of the long-drawn-out and carefully prepared betrayal. She saw in a flash the years ahead on that stony downward path of intrigue, a tool herself in another man's hands, to be cast aside when Time should blunt it ... The mood lasted until they reached the flat. McTaggart believed her still to be under the spell of the music. He respected her silence and enjoyed his cigarette as they sat side by side in the speeding taxi. She opened the door with her latch-key, and switched on the hall light, leading the way into the drawing-room, where before a bright fire a table was spread with a dainty supper laid for one. "I'm all alone to-night--it will be a real picnic." She took off her opera cloak and threw it on the sofa. "My cook sleeps out--she's a married woman--and Melanie has gone home for a short holiday." She told the lie coolly, knowing that near at hand the maid, well coached, was waiting for her cue; an important witness if subsequent events should necessitate her reappearance.