e would prefer that Elfrida should not
see him there. From his point of view it was perfectly
warrantable--he had no sense of any obligation which
would prevent his adding to his critical observation of
her--but from Miss Bell's? He found himself lacking the
assurance that no importance was to be attached to Miss
Bell's point of view, and he turned up his coat collar
and pulled his hat over his eyes, and seated himself as
obscurely as possible, with a satisfactory sense that
nobody could take him for a gentleman, mingled with a
less agreeable suspicion that it was doubtful whether,
under the circumstances, he had a complete right to the
title. The overture strung him up more pleasureably than
usual, however. He wondered if he should recognize her
at once, and what part she would have. He did not know
the piece, but of course it would be a small one. He
wondered--for, so far as he knew, she had had no experience
of the stage--how she could have been got ready in the
time to take even a small one. Inevitably it would be a
part with three words to say and nothing to sing--probably
a maid-servant's. He smiled as he thought how sincerely
Elfrida would detest such a personation. When the curtain
rose at last Mr. John Kendal searched the stage more
eagerly than the presence there of any mistress of her
art had ever induced him to do before. The first act was
full of gaiety, and the music was very tolerable; but
Kendal, scanning one insistent figure and painted face
after another, heard nothing, in effect, of what was said
or sung--he was conscious only of a strong disappointment
when it was over and Elfrida had not appeared.

The curtain went up again to a quick-step, to clinking
steel, and the sound of light marching feet. An instant
after forty young women were rhythmically advancing and
retreating before the footlights, picturesquely habited
in a military costume comprising powdered wigs,
three-cornered hats, gold-embroidered blue coats,
flesh-colored tights, and kid top-boots, which dated
uncertainly from the middle ages. They sang, as they
crossed their varyingly shapely legs, stamped their feet,
and formed into figures no drill-book ever saw, a chorus
of which the refrain was

"Oh, it never matters, matters,
Though his coat be tatters, tatters,
His good sword rust-incrusted and his songs all sung,
The maids will flatter, flatter,
And foes will scatter, scatter,
For a soldier is soldier while