He was looking vaguely round as he spoke to her, but suddenly his eyes rested on Alice Lane sitting in a box with two other ladies and her brother. She saw and recognized him at the same moment. He felt uncomfortable; he did not mind who else saw him, but he would have preferred not having been seen by her in Marian’s company; he knew that she would understand the character of the woman he was with, even if she did not already know her by sight and reputation. Though after all, why should it worry him? Women did not seem to take any account of such things nowadays. But it did annoy him, argue as he would, for he was sure that Alice was not one of the many. “Have you found some friends?” asked Marian, following the direction of his eyes. “Acquaintances. One always meets some one one knows here.” The electric bells were ringing for the beginning of the next act, and in the bustle made by men returning to their seats, and the striking up of the orchestra, conversation dropped, though Marian scanned curiously the calm, strong face of the woman in the box, who, instinct told her, was the one who knew West. He had made up his mind to put his fortune to the touch with Marian this evening, feeling fairly certain from her manner toward him at dinner that she liked him and would desert Maddison for him. He had decided to take another flat for her, it not being his taste to keep his lady-bird in a nest that another man had feathered. At any rate, no real harm could come of the experiment; if she proved difficult or dull, a check would cut him loose. He watched the performance without interest. The sight of Alice Lane had stirred something in him that had taken away his relish of Marian’s company. He could not but compare the two. Alice so strong, so trusty, such a good, true comrade. Marian pretty, bright, empty-hearted, ready to sell herself to anyone who could assure her luxury and pleasure, or even luxury alone. Then his thoughts ran on to his wife, a nonentity to him. What a difference it would have made had he not married her, had he really known Alice first, and been able to make her love him. There would be no tiring of her, he knew. Or if Marian were Alice—there had been such women, or scarcely exactly such, but rather women like Alice, who counted the world’s opinion as nothing, and were ready and happy to throw aside every other joy in life, in exchange for the men they loved. But Alice was not like that, and did he love her? Of that he did not feel so certain. He was very fond of her, but surely not in love, or he would have missed her more than he had done. He felt rather that, if he were free to love her, he could and would do so, would do so passionately and forever. But she was not for him; it was sheer folly to let his thoughts stray toward the impossible. The possible sat beside him, and with that he must try to content himself; try to be content with pretty make-believe instead of a beautiful reality.