o, and it seemed to her
that their bodies rose and fell as one body. Without looking directly
at him, which would, she knew, embarrass him before all those hungry
people behind her, she could out of the corner of her eye see the ruddy
brown of his cheek and the hard thick curve of his shoulder. She was
his, she belonged to no one else in the world, she was his utterly.
Utterly. Ever so swiftly and gently her hand brushed for an instant
over his; he responded, crooking his little finger for a moment inside
hers. She smiled; she turned round and looked at the people
triumphantly, she felt a deep contented rest in her heart, rich and
full, proud and arrogant, the mother, the lover, the sister, the child,
everything to him she was ...

People came in, the theatre filled, and a hum of talk arose, then the
orchestra began to tune, and soon music was playing, and Maggie would
have loved to listen but the people must chatter.

When suddenly the lights went down the only thing of which she was
conscious was that Martin's hand had suddenly seized hers roughly,
sharply, and was crushing it, pressing the ring into the flesh so that
it hurt. Her first excited wondering thought then was:

"He doesn't care for me any more only as a friend.--There's the other
now ..." and a strange shyness, timidity, and triumph overwhelmed her
so that her eyes were full of tears and her body trembling.

But as the play continued she must listen. It was her very first play
and soon it was thrilling to her so that she forgot, for a time, even
Martin. Or rather Martin was mingled with it, absorbed in it, part of
it, and she was there too sharing with him the very action of the
story. It was a very old-fashioned play about a little Charity girl who
was brought up by a kindly middle-aged gentleman who cared for nothing
but books. He brought her up on his own plan with a view to marrying
her afterwards. But meanwhile, of course, she saw a handsome young
soldier who was young like herself, and she was naturally bored with
the studious gentleman. Maggie shared all the feelings of the Charity
girl. Had she been brought up, say by a man like Mr. Trenchard and then
had met Martin, why, of course, she could have gone only one way.

The soldier was not like Martin, being slim and curled and beautiful,
nor was the studious gentleman like Mr. Trenchard, being thin and tall
with a face like a monk and a beautiful voice. But the girl was like
Maggie, prettier of