theatre.

CHAPTER VI

Philip's disposition had been so curiously affected by the emotions of
the last few months that he was not in the least surprised to find
himself, that evening, torn by a very curious and unfamiliar spasm of
jealousy. After an hour or so of indecision he made his way, as usual, to
the theatre, but instead of going at once to Elizabeth's room, he slipped
in at the back of the stalls. The house was crowded, and, seated in the
stage box, alone and gloomy, his somewhat austere demeanour intensified
by the severity of his evening clothes, sat Sylvanus Power with the air
of a conqueror. Philip, unaccountably restless, left his seat in a very
few minutes, and, making his way to the box office, scribbled a line to
Elizabeth. The official to whom he handed it looked at him in surprise.

"Won't you go round yourself, Mr. Ware?" he suggested. "Miss Dalstan has
another ten minutes before she is on."

Philip shook his head.

"I'm looking for a man I know," he replied evasively. "I'll be somewhere
about here in five minutes."

The answer came in less than that time. It was just a scrawled line in
pencil:

"Forgive me, dear. I will explain everything in the morning, if you will
come to my rooms at eleven o'clock. This evening I have a hateful duty to
perform and I cannot see you."

Philip, impatient of the atmosphere of the theatre, wandered out into the
streets with the note in his pocket. Broadway was thronged with people, a
heterogeneous, slowly-moving throng, the hardest crowd to apprehend, to
understand, of any in the world. He looked absently into the varying
stream of faces, stared at the whirling sky-signs, the lights flashing
from the tall buildings, heard snatches of the music from the open doors
of the cafes and restaurants. Men, and even women, elbowed him,
unresenting, out of the way, without the semblance of an apology. It
seemed to him that his presence there, part of the drifting pandemonium
of the pavement, was in a sense typical of his own existence in New York.
He had given so much of his life into another's hands and now the anchor
was dragging. He was suddenly confronted with the possibility of a rift
in his relations with Elizabeth; with a sudden surging doubt, not of
Elizabeth herself but simply a feeling of insecurity with regard to their
future. He only realised in those moments how much he had leaned upon
her, how completely she seemed to have extended over him and his trou