orchestra. Such glimpses, only, had the theatre of her. Her
father never introduced her to an attache of the establishment. Once,
after she had grown into magnificent young womanhood, he very angrily
refused an earnest supplication for an introduction from the manager,
himself. On the nights when she came to the theatre he took her to the
box, before the overture began, and she sat there, quite alone, until
he went to her after the audience had been "played out."

His own exclusiveness was very nearly as complete. He formed no
intimacies among the members of the orchestra with whom he played
eight times a week, although his face showed, sometimes, that he
yearned to join their gossip, in the stuffy little room beneath the
stage, which housed them when they were not in their places in the
crowded space "in front" allotted to them.

"_Tiens!_" said the Frenchman who played second-violin. "Ze ol' man
have such fear zat we should wiss to spik us wiz 'is daughtaire, zat
'e trit us lak we 'ave a seeckness catchable!"

It was almost true. He did avoid the chance of making her acquainted
with any of the folk with whom his daily routine threw him into
contact, with a care which might suggest a fear of some sort of
contagion for her. But not all the members of the orchestra resented
it. The drummer (who also played the triangle and tambourine when need
was, imitated railway noises with shrewd implements, pumped an
auto-horn when motor-cars were supposed to be approaching or departing
"off-stage" and made himself, in general, a useful man on all
occasions) was his firm friend and partisan.

"Garn, Frawgs!" he sneered, to the resentful Frenchman. "Yer 'yn't fit
ter sye ther time o' dye ter 'er; yer knows yer 'yn't."

"Wat? To ze daughtaire of a flute!" the Second-Violin replied. "W'y--"

"Garn!" said the drummer. "Sye, yer myke me sick! You, with yer
black-'aired fyce an' paytent boots! Hi bean 'ammerin' 'ide in
horchestras since me tenth birthdye, but Hi knows a hangel w'en Hi
sees one, an' lawst night Hi missed a 'ole bar on the snare fer
lookin' up at 'er just once. Hi never see a brunette look so
habsolutely hinnocent. Th' Ol' Nick's peekin' out o' brunettes' faces,
somew'eres, mostly. Don't know w'at she myde me think of--m'ybe
wreaths o' roses red an' pink, an' m'ybe crowns o' di'mun's--but Hi
missed a 'ole bar on th' snare fer thinking somethink."

"_Tiens!_" the Frenchman began scornfully. "He is too much--"

"Gar