"I am afraid you are bored with this," his host said, approaching him during an interval in the performance, having observed with the turning up of the lights Mr Musgrave's serious expression. "Come along to the billiard-room and have a smoke." "I am not bored," John Musgrave answered, as he left his seat and accompanied Will Chadwick with a willingness which seemed to discredit his assertion. "I was interested, and--and surprised." "Surprised," suggested Mr Chadwick, "that people can find amusement in this sort of thing? Very little amuses most of us. I've seen quite brainy fellows absorbed in watching flies pitch on a lump of sugar. Their interest was sporting, and had a financial basis, certainly. In this instance it is the pleasure of the senses that is appealed to. I enjoy watching pretty women posturing myself." "I have no doubt it is artistic," returned John Musgrave reflectively. It passed through his mind that a pretty woman appeals to the senses quite as effectively in the natural poses of everyday life, but he did not voice his thoughts. The suggestion of women posturing for the enjoyment of the other sex jarred his fastidiousness. John Musgrave held women reverently in his thoughts, or, rather, he held his ideal of womanhood in reverence; he knew very little about women in reality. There was a fair sprinkling of men in the billiard-room when they entered, who had repaired thither for their refreshment during the interval. They were smoking and drinking and criticising, with a freedom which occurred to Mr Musgrave as not in the best of taste, some of the scenes that had been staged and the persons who had taken part in them. John Musgrave found himself standing near a couple of young men from Rushleigh whom he knew very well by sight, though he was not acquainted with them. One of them was engaged in watching two men playing a hundred up; the other was eagerly talking to his inattentive companion about Peggy Annersley, whose posturing had apparently pleased his appreciative eye. "She's the gardener," he was saying, and Mr Musgrave frowned with annoyance when he realised who it was the youth was discussing with such avidity. "A lady gardener--a real lady, you know." His friend, if he heard, showed no interest; his attention was centred in the balls. The youth jerked his arm. "She is," he insisted, "a real lady. I know it for a fact." "All right, my dear chap," the other returned, unmoved. "I know quite a nice girl who sells shrimps." Mr Musgrave felt his anger rising, though why he should feel angry he did not understand. It hurt him that Peggy Annersley's name--the young cub spoke of her as Peggy--should be bandied about in this fashion. It hurt him more that Peggy should be satisfied to dress up and posture for the delectation of these youths. When the rest of the men left the billiard-room he remained behind alone. CHAPTER FIFTEEN.