At the porter's desk a brief "Pas de lettres" felldestructively on the fabric of these hopes.

　　Mrs. Leath had not written--she had not taken the trouble toexplain her telegram. Darrow turned away with a sharp pangof humiliation. Her frugal silence mocked his prodigalityof hopes and fears. He had put his question to the porteronce before, on returning to the hotel after luncheon; andnow, coming back again in the late afternoon, he was met bythe same denial. The second post was in, and had broughthim nothing.

　　A glance at his watch showed that he had barely time todress before taking Miss Viner out to dine; but as he turnedto the lift a new thought struck him, and hurrying back intothe hall he dashed off another telegram to his servant:

　　"Have you forwarded any letter with French postmark today?

　　Telegraph answer Terminus."Some kind of reply would be certain to reach him on hisreturn from the theatre, and he would then know definitelywhether Mrs. Leath meant to write or not. He hastened up tohis room and dressed with a lighter heart.

　　Miss Viner's vagrant trunk had finally found its way to itsowner; and, clad in such modest splendour as it furnished,she shone at Darrow across their restaurant table. In thereaction of his wounded vanity he found her prettier andmore interesting than before. Her dress, sloping away fromthe throat, showed the graceful set of her head on itsslender neck, and the wide brim of her hat arched above herhair like a dusky halo. Pleasure danced in her eyes and onher lips, and as she shone on him between the candle-shadesDarrow felt that he should not be at all sorry to be seenwith her in public. He even sent a careless glance abouthim in the vague hope that it might fall on an acquaintance.

　　At the theatre her vivacity sank into a breathless hush, andshe sat intent in her corner of their baignoire, withthe gaze of a neophyte about to be initiated into the sacredmysteries. Darrow placed himself behind her, that he mightcatch her profile between himself and the stage. He wastouched by the youthful seriousness of her expression. Inspite of the experiences she must have had, and of thetwenty-four years to which she owned, she struck him asintrinsically young; and he wondered how so evanescent aquality could have been preserved in the desiccating Murrettair. As the play progressed he noticed that her immobilitywas traversed by swift flashes of perception. She was notmissing anything, and her intensity of attention whenCerdine was on the stage drew an anxious line between herbrows.

　　After the first act she remained for a few minutes rapt andmotionless; then she turned to her companion with a quickpatter of questions. He gathered from them that she hadbeen less interested in following the general drift of theplay than in observing the details of its interpretation.

　　Every gesture and inflection of the great actress's had beenmarked and analyzed; and Darrow felt a secret gratificationin being appealed to as an authority on the histrionic art.

　　His interest in it had hitherto been merely that of thecultivated young man curious of all forms of artisticexpression; but in reply to her questions he found things tosay about it which evidently struck his listener asimpressive and original, and with which he himself was not,on the whole, dissatisfied. Miss Viner was much moreconcerned to hear his views than to express her own, and thedeference with which she received his comments called fromhim more ideas about the theatre than he had ever supposedhimself to possess.

　　With the second act she began to give more attention to thedevelopment of the play, though her interest was excitedrather by what she called "the story" than by the conflictof character producing it. Oddly combined with her sharpapprehension of things theatrical, her knowledge oftechnical "dodges" and green-room precedents, her glibnessabout "lines" and "curtains", was the primitive simplicityof her attitude toward the tale itself, as toward somethingthat was "really happening" and at which one assisted as ata street-accident or a quarrel overheard in the next room.

　　She wanted to know if Darrow thought the lovers "reallywould" be involved in the catastrophe that threatened them,and when he reminded her that his predictions weredisqualified by his having already seen the play, sheexclaimed: "Oh, then, please don't tell me what's going tohappen!" and the next moment was questioning him aboutCerdine's theatrical situation and her private history. Onthe latter point some of her enquiries were of a kind thatit is not in the habit of young girls to make, or even toknow how to make; but her apparent unconsciousness of thefact seemed rather to reflect on her past associates than onherself.

　　When the second act was over, Darrow suggested their takinga turn in the foyer; and seated on one of its crampedred velvet sofas they watched the crowd surge up and down ina glare of lights and gilding. Then, as she complained ofthe heat, he led her through the press to the congestedcafe at the foot of the stairs, where orangeades werethrust at them between the shoulders of packedconsommateurs and Darrow, lighting a cigarette while shesucked her straw, knew the primitive complacency of the manat whose companion other men stare.

　　On a corner of their table lay a smeared copy of atheatrical journal. It caught Sophy's eye and after poringover the page she looked up with an excited exclamation.

　　'They're giving Oedipe tomorrow afternoon at theFrancais! I suppose you've seen it heaps and heaps oftimes?"He smiled back at her. "You must see it too. We'll gotomorrow."She sighed at his suggestion, but without discarding it.

　　"How can I? The last train for Joigny leaves at four.""But you don't know yet that your friends will want you.""I shall know tomorrow early. I asked Mrs. Farlow totelegraph as soon as she got my letter."A twinge of compunction shot through Darrow. Her wordsrecalled to him that on their return to the hotel afterluncheon she had given him her letter to post, and that hehad never thought of it again. No doubt it was still in thepocket of the coat he had taken off when he dressed fordinner. In his perturbation he pushed back his chair, andthe movement made her look up at him.

　　"What's the matter?""Nothing. Only--you know I don't fancy that letter can havecaught this afternoon's post.""Not caught it? Why not?""Why, I'm afraid it will have been too late." He bent hishead to light another cigarette.

　　She struck her hands together with a gesture which, to hisamusement, he noticed she had caught from Cerdine.

　　"Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that! But surely it willreach them in the morning?""Some time in the morning, I suppose. You know the Frenchprovincial post is never in a hurry. I don't believe yourletter would have been delivered this evening in any case."As this idea occurred to him he felt himself almostabsolved.

　　"Perhaps, then, I ought to have telegraphed?""I'll telegraph for you in the morning if you say so."The bell announcing the close of the entr'-acte shrilledthrough the cafe, and she sprang to her feet.

　　"Oh, come, come! We mustn't miss it!"Instantly forgetful of the Farlows, she slipped her armthrough his and turned to push her way back to the theatre.

　　As soon as the curtain went up she as promptly forgot hercompanion. Watching her from the corner to which he hadreturned, Darrow saw that great waves of sensation werebeating deliciously against her brain. It was as thoughevery starved sensibility were throwing out feelers to themounting tide; as though everything she was seeing, hearing,imagining, rushed in to fill the void of all she had alwaysbeen denied.

　　Darrow, as he observed her, again felt a detached enjoymentin her pleasure. She was an extraordinary conductor ofsensation: she seemed to transmit it physically, inemanations that set the blood dancing in his veins. He hadnot often had the opportunity of studying the effects of aperfectly fresh impression on so responsive a temperament,and he felt a fleeting desire to make its chords vibrate forhis own amusement.

　　At the end of the next act she discovered with dismay thatin their transit to the cafe she had lost the beautifulpictured programme he had bought for her. She wanted to goback and hunt for it, but Darrow assured her that he wouldhave no trouble in getting her another. When he went out inquest of it she followed him protestingly to the door of thebox, and he saw that she was distressed at the thought ofhis having to spend an additional franc for her. Thisfrugality smote Darrow by its contrast to her natural brightprofusion; and again he felt the desire to right so clumsyan injustice.

　　When he returned to the box she was still standing in thedoorway, and he noticed that his were not the only eyesattracted to her. Then another impression sharply divertedhis attention. Above the fagged faces of the Parisian crowdhe had caught the fresh fair countenance of Owen Leathsignalling a joyful recognition. The young man, slim andeager, had detached himself from two companions of his owntype, and was seeking to push through the press to his step-mother's friend. The encounter, to Darrow, could hardlyhave been more inopportune; it woke in him a confusion offeelings of which only the uppermost was allayed by seeingSophy Viner, as if instinctively warned, melt back into theshadow of their box.

　　A minute later Owen Leath was at his side. "I was sure itwas you! Such luck to run across you! Won't you come offwith us to supper after it's over? Montmartre, or whereverelse you please. Those two chaps over there are friends ofmine, at the Beaux Arts; both of them rather good fellows--and we'd be so glad----"For half a second Darrow read in his hospitable eye thetermination "if you'd bring the lady too"; then it deflectedinto: "We'd all be so glad if you'd come."Darrow, excusing himself with thanks, lingered on for a fewminutes' chat, in which every word, and every tone of hiscompanion's voice, was like a sharp light flashed intoaching eyes. He was glad when the bell called the audienceto their seats, and young Leath left him with the friendlyquestion: "We'll see you at Givre later on?"When he rejoined Miss Viner, Darrow's first care was to findout, by a rapid inspection of the house, whether OwenLeath's seat had given him a view of their box. But theyoung man was not visible from it, and Darrow concluded thathe had been recognized in the corridor and not at hiscompanion's side. He scarcely knew why it seemed to him soimportant that this point should be settled; certainly hissense of reassurance was less due to regard for Miss Vinerthan to the persistent vision of grave offended eyes...

　　During the drive back to the hotel this vision waspersistently kept before him by the thought that the eveningpost might have brought a letter from Mrs. Leath. Even ifno letter had yet come, his servant might have telegraphedto say that one was on its way; and at the thought hisinterest in the girl at his side again cooled to thefraternal, the almost fatherly. She was no more to him,after all, than an appealing young creature to whom it wasmildly agreeable to have offered an evening's diversion; andwhen, as they rolled into the illuminated court of thehotel, she turned with a quick movement which brought herhappy face close to his, he leaned away, affecting to beabsorbed in opening the door of the cab.

　　At the desk the night porter, after a vain search throughthe pigeon-holes, was disposed to think that a letter ortelegram had in fact been sent up for the gentleman; andDarrow, at the announcement, could hardly wait to ascend tohis room. Upstairs, he and his companion had the longdimly-lit corridor to themselves, and Sophy paused on herthreshold, gathering up in one hand the pale folds of hercloak, while she held the other out to Darrow.

　　"If the telegram comes early I shall be off by the firsttrain; so I suppose this is good-bye," she said, her eyesdimmed by a little shadow of regret.

　　Darrow, with a renewed start of contrition, perceived thathe had again forgotten her letter; and as their hands met hevowed to himself that the moment she had left him he woulddash down stairs to post it.

　　"Oh, I'll see you in the morning, of course!"A tremor of pleasure crossed her face as he stood beforeher, smiling a little uncertainly.

　　"At any rate," she said, "I want to thank you now for mygood day."He felt in her hand the same tremor he had seen in her face.

　　"But it's YOU, on the contrary--" he began, lifting thehand to his lips.

　　As he dropped it, and their eyes met, something passedthrough hers that was like a light carried rapidly behind acurtained window.

　　"Good night; you must be awfully tired," he said with afriendly abruptness, turning away without even waiting tosee her pass into her room. He unlocked his door, andstumbling over the threshold groped in the darkness for theelectric button. The light showed him a telegram on thetable, and he forgot everything else as he caught it up.

　　"No letter from France," the message read.

　　It fell from Darrow's hand to the floor, and he dropped intoa chair by the table and sat gazing at the dingy drab andolive pattern of the carpet. She had not written, then; shehad not written, and it was manifest now that she did notmean to write. If she had had any intention of explainingher telegram she would certainly, within twenty-four hours,have followed it up by a letter. But she evidently did notintend to explain it, and her silence could mean only thatshe had no explanation to give, or else that she was tooindifferent to be aware that one was needed.

　　Darrow, face to face with these alternatives, felt arecrudescence of boyish misery. It was no longer his hurtvanity that cried out. He told himself that he could haveborne an equal amount of pain, if only it had left Mrs.

　　Leath's image untouched; but he could not bear to think ofher as trivial or insincere. The thought was so intolerablethat he felt a blind desire to punish some one else for thepain it caused him.

　　As he sat moodily staring at the carpet its sillyintricacies melted into a blur from which the eyes of Mrs.

　　Leath again looked out at him. He saw the fine sweep of herbrows, and the deep look beneath them as she had turned fromhim on their last evening in London. "This will be good-bye, then," she had said; and it occurred to him that herparting phrase had been the same as Sophy Viner's.

　　At the thought he jumped to his feet and took down from itshook the coat in which he had left Miss Viner's letter. Theclock marked the third quarter after midnight, and he knewit would make no difference if he went down to the post-boxnow or early the next morning; but he wanted to clear hisconscience, and having found the letter he went to the door.

　　A sound in the next room made him pause. He had becomeconscious again that, a few feet off, on the other side of athin partition, a small keen flame of life was quivering andagitating the air. Sophy's face came hack to himinsistently. It was as vivid now as Mrs. Leath's had been amoment earlier. He recalled with a faint smile ofretrospective pleasure the girl's enjoyment of her evening,and the innumerable fine feelers of sensation she had thrownout to its impressions.

　　It gave him a curiously close sense of her presence to thinkthat at that moment she was living over her enjoyment asintensely as he was living over his unhappiness. His owncase was irremediable, but it was easy enough to give her afew more hours of pleasure. And did she not perhapssecretly expect it of him? After all, if she had been veryanxious to join her friends she would have telegraphed themon reaching Paris, instead of writing. He wondered now thathe had not been struck at the moment by so artless a deviceto gain more time. The fact of her having practised it didnot make him think less well of her; it merely strengthenedthe impulse to use his opportunity. She was starving, poorchild, for a little amusement, a little personal life--whynot give her the chance of another day in Paris? If he didso, should he not be merely falling in with her own hopes?

　　At the thought his sympathy for her revived. She became ofabsorbing interest to him as an escape from himself and anobject about which his thwarted activities could cluster.

　　He felt less drearily alone because of her being there, onthe other side of the door, and in his gratitude to her forgiving him this relief he began, with indolent amusement, toplan new ways of detaining her. He dropped back into hischair, lit a cigar, and smiled a little at the image of hersmiling face. He tried to imagine what incident of the dayshe was likely to be recalling at that particular moment,and what part he probably played in it. That it was not asmall part he was certain, and the knowledge was undeniablypleasant.

　　Now and then a sound from her room brought before him morevividly the reality of the situation and the strangeness ofthe vast swarming solitude in which he and she weremomentarily isolated, amid long lines of rooms each holdingits separate secret. The nearness of all these othermysteries enclosing theirs gave Darrow a more intimate senseof the girl's presence, and through the fumes of his cigarhis imagination continued to follow her to and fro, tracedthe curve of her slim young arms as she raised them to undoher hair, pictured the sliding down of her dress to thewaist and then to the knees, and the whiteness of her feetas she slipped across the floor to bed...

　　He stood up and shook himself with a yawn, throwing away theend of his cigar. His glance, in following it, lit on thetelegram which had dropped to the floor. The sounds in thenext room had ceased, and once more he felt alone andunhappy.

　　Opening the window, he folded his arms on the sill andlooked out on the vast light-spangled mass of the city, andthen up at the dark sky, in which the morning planet stood.