away, Edith half
expected that he would put it off, but there was no change made in the
plans, and they met in the box as arranged.

Aylmer had expected during the whole day to hear that she had managed
to postpone the party. At one moment he was frightened and rather
horrified when he thought of what he had done. At another he was
delighted and enchanted about it, and told himself that it was
absolutely justified. After all, he couldn't do more than go away if he
found he was too fond of her. No hero of romance could be expected to
do more than that, and he wasn't a hero of romance; he didn't pretend
to be. But he _was_ a good fellow--and though Bruce's absurdities
irritated him a great deal he had a feeling of delicacy towards him,
and a scrupulousness that is not to be found every day. At other
moments Aylmer swore to himself, cursing his impulsiveness, fearing she
now would really not ever think of him as he wished, but as a hustling
sort of brute. But no--he didn't care. He had come at last to close
quarters with her. He had kissed the pretty little mouth that he had so
often watched with longing. He admitted to himself that he had really
wished to pose a little in her eyes: to be the noble hero in the third
act who goes away from temptation. But who does not wish for the _beau
role_ before one's idol?

* * * * *

This meeting at the play tonight was the sort of anti-climax that is
almost invariable in a London romance. How he looked forward to it! For
after Vincy came in only a few banalities had been said. He was to see
her now for the last time--the first time since he had given himself
away to her. Probably it was only her usual kindness to others that
prevented her getting out of the evening plans, he thought. Or--did she
want to see him once more?

At dinner before the play Edith was very bright, and particularly
pretty. Bruce, too, was in good spirits.

'It's rather sickening,' he remarked, 'Aylmer going away like this; we
shall miss him horribly, sha'n't we? And then, where's the sense,
Edith, in a chap leaving London where he's been the whole of the awful
winter, just as it begins to be pleasant here? Pass the salt; don't
spill it--that's unlucky. Not that I believe in any superstitious rot.
I can see the charm of the quaint old ideas about black cats and so
forth, but I don't for one moment attach any importance to them, nor to
the number thirteen, nor any of that sort