urtly and made for the door, dodging acquaintances as he
went.

"Poor old Hugh," Mainhall murmured. "He's hit terribly hard. He's been
wanting to marry Hilda these three years and more. She doesn't take up
with anybody, you know. Irene Burgoyne, one of her family, told me in
confidence that there was a romance somewhere back in the beginning. One
of your countrymen, Alexander, by the way; an American student whom she
met in Paris, I believe. I dare say it's quite true that there's never
been any one else." Mainhall vouched for her constancy with a loftiness
that made Alexander smile, even while a kind of rapid excitement was
tingling through him. Blinking up at the lights, Mainhall added in
his luxurious, worldly way: "She's an elegant little person, and quite
capable of an extravagant bit of sentiment like that. Here comes Sir
Harry Towne. He's another who's awfully keen about her. Let me introduce
you. Sir Harry Towne, Mr. Bartley Alexander, the American engineer."

Sir Harry Towne bowed and said that he had met Mr. Alexander and his
wife in Tokyo.

Mainhall cut in impatiently.

"I say, Sir Harry, the little girl's going famously to-night, isn't
she?"

Sir Harry wrinkled his brows judiciously. "Do you know, I thought the
dance a bit conscious to-night, for the first time. The fact is, she's
feeling rather seedy, poor child. Westmere and I were back after the
first act, and we thought she seemed quite uncertain of herself. A
little attack of nerves, possibly."

He bowed as the warning bell rang, and Mainhall whispered: "You know
Lord Westmere, of course,--the stooped man with the long gray mustache,
talking to Lady Dowle. Lady Westmere is very fond of Hilda."

When they reached their box the house was darkened and the orchestra
was playing "The Cloak of Old Gaul." In a moment Peggy was on the stage
again, and Alexander applauded vigorously with the rest. He even leaned
forward over the rail a little. For some reason he felt pleased and
flattered by the enthusiasm of the audience. In the half-light he looked
about at the stalls and boxes and smiled a little consciously, recalling
with amusement Sir Harry's judicial frown. He was beginning to feel a
keen interest in the slender, barefoot donkey-girl who slipped in and
out of the play, singing, like some one winding through a hilly field.
He leaned forward and beamed felicitations as warmly as Mainhall himself
when, at the end of the play, she came again and again