She had raised a lorgnette to her eyes and was looking at the boy violinist, a little, happy, wistful smile on her lips.... Eldridge had not seen her smile like that for years. His left lobe abandoned the clothes-line and recalled to him when it was he saw the little smile, half wistful, half happy, on her face.... They were standing by the gate, and he was saying good night; the moon had just come up, and there was a fragrant bush beside the path that gave out the smell of spring; the left lobe yielded up fragrance and moonlight and the little wistful smile while his quick eye followed the lorgnette; it had dropped to her lap, and her hands were folded on it.... Rosalind--! A gold lorgnette--and draperies, soft, gauzy lines and folds of silk--and a hat on her shining, lifted hair, like a vague coronet! Eldridge Walcott held his cigar grimly between his teeth; the cigar had gone out--both lobes had ceased to whirl.... A kind of frozen light held his face. His hand groped for his hat. Why should he not step across the aisle and sit down in the chair opposite her and confront her?--the green curtains would shut them in.... Both lobes stared at the thought and held it tight--to face Rosalind, a grey, frightened woman in her finery, behind the little green curtains! He shook himself loose and stood up. Softly his hand drew back the curtain, and he stepped out. They were clapping the boy violinist, who had played to the end, and Eldridge moved toward the swinging doors and passed out and stood in the lobby. He wiped his forehead.... A sound of moving chairs came from behind the doors, and he crossed the lobby quickly and plunged into the crowd. It was five o’clock, and the streets were filled with people hurrying home. Eldridge turned against the tide and crossed a side street and pressed east, his feet seeming to find a way of their own. He was not thinking where he would go--except that it must be away from her. He could not face her yet--Who _was_ she? There was the drab woman of the morning, waiting for him to come home with the clothesline, and there was the woman of the alcove, splendid, gentle, with the little smile and the gold lorgnette.... Rosalind--Fifteen years he had lived with her, and he had known her ten years before that--there was nothing _queer_ about Rosalind! He lifted his head a little proudly--The woman he had just left was very beautiful! It struck him for the first time that she was beautiful, and he half stopped.