der the drenching showers that had
fallen upon her modesty, and she felt confused and compromised.

As she stepped down the stairs the curtain was drawn up, the auditorium
was a void, the stage dark, save for a single gas jet that burned at the
prompter's wing, and a gentleman in evening dress was walking to and fro
by the extinguished footlights. She was about to step up to the man when
she recognised him, and turning on her heel she hurried away. It was Lord
Robert Ure, and the memory that had troubled her at the first sight of
Betty was of the woman who had ridden with Polly Love on the day of the
Lord Mayor's show.

Feeling hot and foolish and afraid, she was scurrying through the dark
passages when some one called her. It was the stage manager.

"I should like to hear your voice again, my dear. Come down at eleven in
the morning, sharp. The leader of the orchestra will be here to play."

She made some confused answer of assent, and then found herself in the
back seat, panting audibly and taking long breaths of the cold night air.
She was dizzy and was feeling, as she had never felt before, that she
wanted some one to lean upon. If anybody had said to her at that moment,
"Come out of the atmosphere of that hot-bed, my child, it is full of
danger and the germs of death," she would have left everything behind her
and followed him, whatever the cost or sacrifice. But she had no one, and
the pain of her yearning and the misery of her shame were choking her.

Before going home she walked over to the hospital; but no, there was
still no letter from John Storm. There was one from Drake, many days
overdue:

"Dear Glory: Hearing that you call for your letters, I write to ask if
you will not let me know where you are and how the world is using you.
Since the day we parted in St. James's Park I have often spoken of you to
my friend Miss Macquarrie, and I am angry with myself when I remember
what remarkable talents you have, and that they are only waiting for the
right use to be made of them.

"Yours most kindly,

"F. H. N. Drake."

"Many thanks, good Late-i'-th'-day," she thought, and she was crushing
the latter in her hand when she saw there was a postscript:

"P. S.--This being the Christmas season, I have given myself the pleasure
of sending a parcel of Yuletide goodies to your dear old grandfather and
his sweet and simple household; but as they have doubtless long forgotten
me, and I do not wish to embarra