“

No stalls left,” Holderness declared, turning away from the box office at the Alhambra. “We’ll go in the promenade. We can find a chair there if we want to sit down.”

Macheson followed him up the stairs and into the heavily carpeted promenade. His memory of the evening, a memory which clung to him for long afterwards, seemed like a phantasmagoria of thrilling music, a stage packed with marvellously dressed women, whose movements were blended with the music into one voluptuous chorus—a blaze of colour not wholly without its artistic significance, and about him an air heavy with tobacco smoke and perfumes, a throng of moving people, more women—many more women. A girl spoke to Holderness,—a girl heavily rouged but not ill-looking, dressed in a blue muslin gown and large black hat. Holderness bent towards her deferentially. His voice seemed to take to itself its utmost note of courtesy, he answered her inquiry pleasantly, and accepted a glance at her programme. The girl looked puzzled, but they talked together for several moments of casual things. Then Holderness lifted his hat.

“My friend and I are tired,” he said. “We are going to look for a seat.”

She bowed and they strolled on down the promenade, finding some chairs at the further end. The dresses of the women brushed their feet and the perfume from the clothes was stronger even than the odour from the clouds of tobacco smoke which hung about the place. Macheson, in whom were generations of puritanical impulses, found himself shrinking back in his corner. Holderness turned towards him frowning.

“No superiority, Victor,” he said. “These are your fellow-creatures. Don’t look at them as though you’d come down from the clouds.”

“It isn’t that,” Macheson answered, “it’s a matter of taste.”

“Taste! Rot!” Holderness answered. “The factory girl’s hat offends my taste, but I don’t shrink away from her.”

A girl, in passing, stumbled against his foot. Holderness stood up as he apologized.

“I am really very sorry,” he said. “No one with feet like mine ought to sit down in a public place. I hope you haven’t torn your dress?”

“It really doesn’t matter,” the girl answered. “I ought to have looked where I was going.”

“In which case,” Holderness remarked, with a laugh, “you could not have failed to see my feet.”

There were two empty chairs at their table. The girl glanced towards them and hesitated.

“Do you mind if we sit down here for a minute,” she asked, “my friend and I? We are rather tired.”

He drew the chairs towards them.

“By all means,” he answered courteously. “Your friend does look tired.”

The party arranged itself. Holderness called to a waiter and gave an order.

“My friend and I,” he remarked, indicating Macheson, who was fiercely uncomfortable and struggling hard not to show it, “are disappointed that we could not get stalls. We wanted to see La Guerrero and this wonderful conjurer.”

“The place is full every night,” the girl answered listlessly. “La Guerrero comes on at ten o’clock, you can see her from the front of the promenade easily. You don’t often come here, do you?”

“Not very often,” Holderness answered. “And you?”

“Every night,” the girl answered in a dull tone.

“That must be monotonous,” he said kindly.

“It is,” she admitted.

They talked for a few minutes longer, or rather it was Holderness who mostly talked, and the others who listened. It struck Macheson as curious that his friend should find it so easy to strike the note of their conversation and keep it there, as though without any definite effort he could assume control over even the thoughts of these girls, to whom he talked with such easy courtesy. He told a funny story and they all laughed naturally and heartily. Macheson had an idea that the girls had forgotten for the moment exactly where they were. Something in their faces, something which had almost terrified him at their first coming, had relaxed, if it had not passed wholly away. At the sound of a few bars of music one of them leaned almost eagerly forward.

“There,” she said, “if you want to see La Guerrero you must hurry. She is coming on now.”

The two young men rose to their feet. One of the girls looked wistfully at Holderness, but nothing was said beyond the ordinary farewells.

“Thank you so much for telling us,” Holderness said. “Come along, Victor. It is La Guerrero.”

Macheson breathed more freely when once they were in the throng. They watched the Spanish dancer with her exquisite movements, sinuous, full of grace. Holderness especially applauded loudly. Afterwards they found seats in the front and remained there for the rest of the performance.

Out in the street they hesitated. Holderness passed his arm through his companion’s.

“Supper!” he declared. “This way! Did you know what a man about town I was, Victor? Ah! but one must learn, and life isn’t all roses and honey. One must learn!”

They threaded their way through the streets, crowded with hansoms, electric broughams, and streams of foot passengers. Holderness led the way to a sombre-looking building, and into a room barely lit save for the rose-shaded lamps upon the tables. Macheson gasped as he entered. Nearly every table was occupied by women in evening dress, women alone—waiting. Holderness glanced around quite unconcernedly as he gave up his coat and hat to a waiter.

“Feeling shy, Victor?” he asked, smiling. “Never mind. We’ll find a table to ourselves all right.”

They sat in a corner. The girls chattered and talked across them—often at them. A Frenchwoman, superbly gowned in white lace, and with a long rope of pearls around her neck, paused as she passed their table. She carried a Pomeranian under her arm and held it out towards them.

“See! My little dog!” she exclaimed. “He bite you. Messieurs are lonely?”

“Alas! Of necessity,” Holderness answered in French. “Madame is too kind.”

She passed on, laughing. Macheson looked across the table almost fiercely.

“What are you doing it for, Dick?” he exclaimed. “What does it mean?”

His friend looked across at him steadfastly.

“Victor,” he said, “I want you to understand. You are an enthusiast, a reformer, a prophet of lost causes. I want you to know the truth if you can see it. There are many sides to life.”

“What am I to learn of this?” Macheson asked, almost passionately.

“If I told you,” Holderness answered, “the lesson would only be half learnt. Sit tight and don’t be a fool. Drink your wine. Mademoiselle in violet there wants to flirt with you.”

“Shall I ask her to join us?” Macheson demanded with wasted satire.

“You might do worse,” Holderness answered calmly. “She could probably teach you something.”

It was a dull evening, and many of the tables remained unoccupied—save for the one waiting figure. The women, tired of looking towards the door, were smoking cigarettes, twirling their bracelets, yawning, and looking around the room. Many a mute invitation reached the two young men, but Holderness seemed to have lost his sociability. His face had grown harder and he seemed glad when their meal was over and they were free to depart. In the hall below they had to wait for their overcoats. Macheson strolled idly towards the entrance of another supper room on the ground floor, and looked in. An exclamation broke from his lips. He turned towards Holderness.

“You see the time,” he exclaimed, “and they are here! Those two!”

Holderness nodded gravely.

“The girl has been crying,” he said, “and there is an A B C on the table. It’s up to you, Victor. We may both have to take a hand in the game. No! I wouldn’t go in. Wait till they come out!”

They stood in the throng, jostled, cajoled, besought. At last the two rose and came towards the door. Letty had dried her eyes, but she looked still pale and terrified. Hurd, on the contrary, was flushed as though with wine. Macheson took her by the arm as she passed.

“Letty,” he said gravely, “have you missed your train?”

She gave a stifled cry and shrank back, when she saw who it was. However, she recovered herself quickly.

“Mr. Macheson!” she exclaimed. “How you startled me! I didn’t expect—to see you again.”

“About this train, Letty?” he repeated.

“Mr. Hurd’s watch stopped,” she declared, her eyes filling once more with tears. “He thought it was eleven o’clock,—and it was ten minutes past twelve. I don’t know what mother will say, I am sure.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

She looked round nervously.

“Mr. Hurd is going to take me to some friends of his,” she answered. “You see it was his fault, so he has promised to see mother and explain.”

Hurd pushed angrily forward.

“Look here,” he said to Macheson, “have you been following us about?”

“I have not,” Macheson answered calmly. “I am very glad to have come across you, though.”

“Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” Hurd remarked. “Come, Letty.”

A girl who was passing tapped him on the arm. She was dressed in blue silk, with a large picture hat, and she was smoking a cigarette.

“Hullo, Stephen!” she exclaimed. “Edith wants to see you. Are you coming round to-night?”

Hurd muttered something under his breath and moved away. Letty looked at him with horror.

“Stephen!” she exclaimed. “You can’t—you don’t mean to say that you know—any of these?”

She was trembling in every limb. He tried to pass his arm through hers.

“Don’t be a fool, Letty,” he said. “It’s time we went, or my friends will have gone to bed.”

She looked at him with wide-open eyes. Her lips were quivering. It was as though she saw some new thing in his face.

“Your friends,” she murmured, “are they—that sort? Oh! I am afraid.”

She clung to Macheson. People were beginning to notice them. He led her out into the street. Hurd followed, angrily protesting. Holderness was close behind.

“I say, you know,” Hurd began, with his arm on Macheson’s shoulder. Macheson shook it off.

“Mr. Hurd,” he said, “at the risk of seeming impertinent, I must ask you precisely where you intend taking this girl to-night?”

“What the devil business is it of yours?” Hurd answered angrily.

“Tell me, all the same,” Macheson persisted.

Hurd passed his arm through Letty’s.

“Come, Letty,” he said, “we will take this hansom.”

The girl was only half willing. Macheson declined to let them go.

“No!” he said, “I will have my question answered.”

Hurd turned as though to strike him, but Holderness intervened, head and shoulders taller than the other.

“I think,” he said, “that we will have my friend’s question answered.”

Hurd was almost shaking with rage, but he answered.

“To some friends in Cambridge Terrace,” he said sullenly. “Number eighteen.”

“You will not object,” Macheson said, “if I accompany you there?”

“I’ll see you damned first,” Hurd answered savagely. “Get in, Letty.”

The girl hesitated. She turned to Macheson.

“I should like to go to the station and wait,” she declared.

“I think,” Macheson said, “that you had better trust yourself to me and my friend.”

“I am sure of it,” Holderness added calmly.

She put her hand in Macheson’s. She was as pale as death and avoided looking at Hurd. He took a quick step towards her.

“Very well, young lady,” he said. “If you go now, you understand that I shall never see you again.”

She began to cry again.

“I wish,” she murmured, “that I had never seen you at all—never!”

He turned on his heel. A row was impossible. It occurred to him that a man of the world would face such a position calmly.

“Very good,” he said, “we will leave it at that.”

He paused to light a cigarette, and strolled back down the street towards the restaurant which they had just left. Letty was crying now in good earnest. The two young men looked at one another in something like dismay. Then Holderness began to laugh quietly.

“You’re a nice sort of Don Quixote to spend an evening with,” he remarked softly.