as in the place, in the people.
John Storm could have found it in his heart to turn on the audience and
insult them. Foul-minded creatures, laughing, screaming, squealing,
punctuating their own base interpretations and making evil of what was
harmless! How he hated the grinning faces round about him!

When the song was finished Glory swept a gay courtesy, lifted her skirts,
and tripped off the stage. Then there were shouting, whistling, stamping,
and deafening applause. The whole house was unanimous for an encore, and
she came back smiling and bowing with a certain look of elation and
pride. John Storm was becoming terrified by his own anger. "Be quiet
there!" said some one behind him. "Who's the josser?" said somebody else,
and then he heard Glory's voice again.

It was another Manx ditty. A crew of young fishermen are going ashore on
Saturday night after their week on the sea after the herring. They go up
to the inn; their sweethearts meet them there; they drink and sing. At
length they are so overcome by liquor and love that they have to be put
to bed in their big sea boots. Then the girls kiss them and leave them.
The singer imitated the kissing, and the delighted audience repeated the
sound. Sounds of kissing came from all parts of the hall, mingled with
loud acclamations of laughter. The singer smiled and kissed back. Somehow
she conveyed the sense of a confidential feeling as if she were doing it
for each separate person in the audience, and each person had an impulse
to respond. It was irresistible, it was maddening, it swept over the
whole house.

John Storm felt sick in his very soul. Glory knew well what she was
doing. She knew what these people wanted. His Glory! Glory of the old,
innocent happy days! O God! O God! If he could only get out! But that was
impossible. Behind him the dense mass was denser than ever, and he was
tightly wedged in by a wall of faces--hot, eager, with open mouths, teeth
showing, and glittering and dancing eyes. He tried not to listen to what
the people about were saying, yet he could not help but hear.

"Tasty, ain't she?" "Cerulean, eh?" "Bit 'ot, certinly!" "Well, if I was
a Johnny, and had got the oof, she'd have a brougham and a sealskin
to-morrow." "To-night, you mean," and then there were significant squeaks
and trills of laughter.

They called her back again, and yet again, and she returned with
unaffected cheerfulness and a certain look of triumph. At one moment she
was