The last rehearsal was over, a tedious dress rehearsal which had lasted all day and exhausted the patience of every one who had to do with it. When Hilda had dressed for the street and came out of her dressing-room, she found Hugh MacConnell waiting for her in the corridor.

“The fog’s thicker than ever, Hilda. There have been a great many accidents today. It’s positively unsafe for you to be out alone. Will you let me take you home?”

“How good of you, Mac. If you are going with me, I think I’d rather walk. I’ve had no exercise today, and all this has made me nervous.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said MacConnell dryly. Hilda pulled down her veil and they stepped out into the thick brown wash that submerged St. Martin’s Lane. MacConnell took her hand and tucked it snugly under his arm. “I’m sorry I was such a savage. I hope you didn’t think I made an ass of myself.”

“Not a bit of it. I don’t wonder you were peppery. Those things are awfully trying. How do you think it’s going?”

“Magnificently. That’s why I got so stirred up. We are going to hear from this, both of us. And that reminds me; I’ve got news for you. They are going to begin repairs on the theatre about the middle of March, and we are to run over to New York for six weeks. Bennett told me yesterday that it was decided.”

Hilda looked up delightedly at the tall gray figure beside her. He was the only thing she could see, for they were moving through a dense opaqueness, as if they were walking at the bottom of the ocean.

“Oh, Mac, how glad I am! And they love your things over there, don’t they?”

“Shall you be glad for — any other reason, Hilda?”

MacConnell put his hand in front of her to ward off some dark object. It proved to be only a lamp-post, and they beat in farther from the edge of the pavement.

“What do you mean, Mac?” Hilda asked nervously.

“I was just thinking there might be people over there you’d be glad to see,” he brought out awkwardly. Hilda said nothing, and as they walked on MacConnell spoke again, apologetically: “I hope you don’t mind my knowing about it, Hilda. Don’t stiffen up like that. No one else knows, and I didn’t try to find out anything. I felt it, even before I knew who he was. I knew there was somebody, and that it wasn’t I.”

They crossed Oxford Street in silence, feeling their way. The busses had stopped running and the cab-drivers were leading their horses. When they reached the other side, MacConnell said suddenly, “I hope you are happy.”

“Terribly, dangerously happy, Mac,” — Hilda spoke quietly, pressing the rough sleeve of his greatcoat with her gloved hand.

“You’ve always thought me too old for you, Hilda, — oh, of course you’ve never said just that, — and here this fellow is not more than eight years younger than I. I’ve always felt that if I could get out of my old case I might win you yet. It’s a fine, brave youth I carry inside me, only he’ll never be seen.”

“Nonsense, Mac. That has nothing to do with it. It’s because you seem too close to me, too much my own kind. It would be like marrying Cousin Mike, almost. I really tried to care as you wanted me to, away back in the beginning.”

“Well, here we are, turning out of the Square. You are not angry with me, Hilda? Thank you for this walk, my dear. Go in and get dry things on at once. You’ll be having a great night tomorrow.”

She put out her hand. “Thank you, Mac, for everything. Good-night.”

MacConnell trudged off through the fog, and she went slowly upstairs. Her slippers and dressing gown were waiting for her before the fire. “I shall certa............