Eldridge turned blindly toward his place. Some one was there. He had to take the alcove behind, and he could not see her from the alcove behind--not even if she should push back the curtain that shut her away--But he found himself, strangely, not caring to see her.... She was there, a little way off; it was she--no need to part the curtains and look in on her. He felt her presence through all the place. He was no longer guilty.... He was hardly curious to know her. He took up the card from the table before him and studied it blindly.... His heart seemed to lie out before him--a clear, white place.... Men and women were not so evil as he had dreamed. He was doing something that a week ago he would have condemned any one for; yet his heart, as he looked into it, was singularly clear and big--and the light shining in it puzzled him--like a charm--It was a place that he had never seen; he had dreamed of it, perhaps, as a child. He ordered something, at random, from the card and moved nearer the aisle.... No, he could not see her--only the fold of her dress and the bit of grey fur. He was glad she was warmly dressed. The weather was keener to-day. He must get Rosalind a wrap--something warm like that and lined with fur--soft and grey and deep. Everything the woman had he would like Rosalind to have--perhaps it might atone--a little--for the light in his heart. He had not felt like this for Rosalind.... But how should they have known. They were only a boy and girl--and some moonlight.... And all the time this other woman was waiting--somewhere.... No one had told him. If some one had said to him: “Wait, she is coming--you must wait!” But no one knew, no one had told him.... Did _she_ know, across there in her place, did she know--had she waited--for him? He stirred a little. Some one might be with her now; or she might be waiting for some one. But he could not go to her.... And yet--why not--?--He had only to cross the aisle--and put back the curtains--and look at her.... He shook himself and lifted his glass and drank grimly. He was a lawyer; his name was Eldridge Walcott; he lived in a brick house and he had children--three children--_That_ was the real world; this other thing was--madness.... So this was the way men felt! This was it, was it--very clean and whole--as if life were beginning for them--they had made mistakes, but they would try again; they saw something bigger and better than they had ever known--and they reached out to it. Men were not wicked, as he had thought--It was a strange world where you had to be wicked to do things--like this!... And there might be some one with her now! Under the voices and the music he fancied he could hear them talking in low tones; their voices seemed to come and go vaguely; half guessed, not constant, but quiet and happy.... Or was it his own heart that beat to her--the words it could speak?... He would not speak to her--but he would not go away.... He would wait