r happily. They both were
inspired by the feeling that life was a grand thing, and that they had
reached suddenly one of the summits of existence. George, observing the
excitement in her eyes, thought how wonderful it was that she too should
be excited.

"What was that piece?" she asked.

"I don't quite know," he said. "There don't appear to be any programmes
about." He wished he had been able to identify the piece, but he was too
content to be ashamed of his ignorance. Moreover, his ignorance was hers
also, and he liked that.

The music resumed. He listened, ready to put himself into the mood of
admiration if it was the Glazounov item. Was it Glazounov? He could not
be certain. It sounded fine. Surely it sounded Russian. Then he had a
glimpse of a programme held by a man standing near, and he peered at it.
"No. 4. Elgar--Sea-Pictures." No. 5 was the Glazounov.

"It's only the Elgar," he said, with careless condescension, perceiving
at once, by the mere virtue of a label, that the music was not fine and
not Russian. He really loved music, but he happened to be at that age,
from which some people never emerge, at which the judgment depends
almost completely on extraneous suggestion.

"Oh!" murmured Marguerite indifferently, responding to his tone.

"Glazounov's next," he said.

"I suppose we couldn't sit down," she suggested.

Yet it was she who had preferred the Promenade to the Grand Circle or
the Balcony.

"We'll find something," he said, with his usual assurance. And in the
corridor that surrounded the hemicycle they climbed up on to a narrow
ledge in the wall and sat side by side in perfect luxury, not dreaming
that they were doing anything unusual or undignified. As a fact, they
were not. Other couples were perched on other ledges, and still others
on the cold steam-pipes. A girl with a big face and heavy red lips sat
alone, lounging, her head aslant. She had an open copy of _Home Notes_
in one hand. Elgar had sent the simple creature into an ecstasy, and she
never stirred; probably she did not know anyone named Enwright.
Promenaders promenaded in and out of the corridor, and up and down the
corridor, and nobody troubled to glance twice either at the
heavy-lipped, solitary girl or at the ledged couples.

Through an arched doorway could be seen the orchestra and half the
auditorium.

"This is the best seat in the hall," George observed proudly. Marguerite
smiled at him.

When the "Sea-Pictures" were