“But what is truth--to quote Pilate?” asked Minna. “I haven’t found it, either in myself or in any one else. To weave the most gratifying tissue out of lies--that’s the end of life. If I shock you, you had better tell me at once, Mrs. Delamere.” “You look far too charming for any one to be shocked at you,” replied the chaperon indulgently. “Thank you,” said Minna in high good humour. Mrs. Delamere turned the conversation to the cosmopolitan society of foreign watering-places. She had a wide experience of men and things, and talked amusingly. Minna compared her approvingly with her prudish predecessor, and congratulated herself on her choice. The talk was so edifying that they lingered over their coffee, and when they reached their box at the theatre the first act had begun. Except on the stage, all was dimness. The stalls, the dress-circle glimmered vaguely with the pale spots of faces and the broader splashes of light dresses. Minna sat on the stage side of the box and Mrs. Delamere opposite. The act failed to interest the girl, whose champagne-filled head craved amusement. Her nature, too, instinctively rebelled at earnestness of purpose and the suggestion of ideals. The foreshadowing of tragedy in the play depressed her. Her own soul was too dark to bear additional gloom with ease. She yawned, rested her elbow on the edge of the box, and looked fixedly at the stage, while she saw her own life, and pitied herself greatly. She was alone. Anna Cassaba had died suddenly three months ago. Now she was friendless, save for this paid woman next her, whom in her heart she despised. She brooded over her wrongs--over the last great insult her husband had heaped upon her. How she hated him! How dared he marry? Considering her passionate repudiation of all claims upon him, this was unreasonable. But if men and women were always guided by reason, life would be as emotional as the Binomial Theorem. At last the curtain descended. The theatre sprang into light. Mrs. Delamere broke into well-modulated enthusiasm. She praised the acting. “It all seems wooden compared with the French stage,” replied Minna, pausing in the act of raising an opera-glass. She turned, scanned the movements in the stalls. Suddenly she dropped the glass on her lap and remained staring, and grew very white. “Take my salts,” said Mrs. Delamere, quickly rising. “Look there,” cried Minna, unheeding. “There he is, standing up.” “Who?” “Hugh Colman.” “The man who----?” said Mrs. Delamere with tactful aposiopesis. Minna recovered, flushed, bit her lip angrily. She had almost betrayed herself. “It gave a shock to see him,” she explained, forcing a smile. “The last time was in such painful circumstances--the trial--my poor father.” Mrs. Delamere nodded sympathy, and looked with curious interest at Hugh’s handsome face and haughty bearing. “And there is the heroine of his romance with him, Mrs. Merriam. I know her by sight.”