"The theatre! Well, you are gettin' on! That would be 'eavenly. They've got the 'Charity Girl' on this week--Gertie Lennox dancing. But don't you disapprove of that sort of thing?" "So I--I mean I don't make a practice of it. But perhaps--once in a way--" "I love it; though 'tisn't often I gets the chance. I dunno what Dick would say, though." She said it archly, meaning to suggest that Dick might be jealous. John Gilbart misunderstood. "But that's foolish. Why not to-night as well as any other night? What difference can it make to--to--" He broke off, laughing a little wildly. "We'll go and give each other moral support. We'll take tickets for the pit--no, the dress circle!" "The dress circle!" There was awe in Milly's voice; her hand went up to her head. "They make you take your 'at off there. Oh, I couldn't!" But he caught her by the arm and hurried her off almost at a run--the girl giggling and panting and beginning to enjoy herself amazingly. The performance had begun; but they found seats in the front row of the dress circle, almost before she had ceased panting, and Milly was unpinning her hat and glancing up at the gallery on the chance of an envious friendly recognition. The lights, the colours, the clash of brass in the orchestra made Gilbart's head spin. A stout _tenore robusto_ in the uniform of a naval lieutenant was parading the stage in halos of mauve and green lime-light, and bawling his own praises to a semicircle of females. Gilbart's ear caught and retained but a line or two of their shrill chorus: Through the world so wide He's old England's pride, But we'er glad now he's come back: For he's dressed in blue, And he's always true-- Heaven bless you, dear old Jack! The sentiments of this ditty did not materially differ from those which Gilbart was in the habit of assimilating from his morning newspaper; nor were they much more fatuously expressed. Twenty-four hours ago he might even have applauded them as noisily as anyone in the enraptured house. Now his gorge rose against the song, the complacent singer, the men and women who could be amused by such things. Could this be what they called the joy of living? Milly's eyes had begun to sparkle. He forgot that in this very contempt the theatre was providing what he had come to seek--a drug for conscience. And before he recognised this the drug was weakening. Horribly, stealthily, _It_ began to reassert itself. These people--what would happen if he stood up in his place and shouted _It?_ His mind played with the temptation; he saw white faces, men standing and looking up at him, the performance on the stage arrested, the orchestra mute; almost he heard his voice ring out over the sudden frozen consternation. No; he gripped the velvet cushion before him. "I must sit it out. I will sit it out."