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For five minutes, conscious of the foot-lights, Miss Flagg maintained upon her lovely face a fixed and intent expression, and then slowly and unobtrusively drew back to a seat in the rear of the box. In the’ darkest recesses she found Holworthy, shut off from a view of the stage by a barrier of women’s hats.

“Your friend Mr. Ward,” she began abruptly, in a whisper, “is the rudest, most ill-bred person I ever met. When I talked to him the other day I thought he was nice. He was nice, But he has behaved abominably–like a boor–like a sulky child. Has he no sense of humor? Because I played a joke on him, is that any reason why he should hurt me?”

“Hurt you?” exclaimed little Holworthy in amazement. “Don’t be ridiculous! How could he hurt you? Why should you care how rude he is? Ward’s a clever fellow, but he fancies himself. He’s conceited. He’s too good-looking; and a lot of silly women have made such a fuss over him. So when one of them laughs at him he can’t understand it. That’s the trouble. I could see that when I was telling him.”

“Telling him!” repeated Miss Flagg–“Telling him what?”

“About what a funny story you made of it,” explained Holworthy. “About his having the nerve to ask you to feed the monkeys and to lunch with him.”

Miss Flagg interrupted with a gasping intake of her breath.

“Oh!” she said softly. “So-so you told him that, did you? And–what else did you tell him?”

“Only what you told us–that he said ‘the day could not begin too soon’; that he said he wouldn’t let you be a manicure and wash the hands of men who weren’t fit to wash the streets you walked on.”

There was a pause.

“Did I tell you he said that?” breathed Anita Flagg.

“You know you did,” said Holworthy.

There was another pause.

“I must have been mad!” said the girl.

There was a longer pause and Holworthy shifted uneasily.

“I’m afraid you are angry,” he ventured.

“Angry!” exclaimed Miss Flagg. “I should say I was angry, but not with you. I’m very much pleased with you. At the end of the act I’m going to let you take me out into the lobby.”

With his arms tightly folded, Sam sat staring unhappily at the stage and seeing nothing. He was sorry for himself because Anita Flagg had destroyed his ideal of a sweet and noble woman–and he was sorry for Miss Flagg because a man had been rude to her. That he happened to be that man did not make his sorrow and indignation the less intense; and, indeed, so miserable was he and so miserable were his looks, that his friends on the stage considered sending him a note, offering, if he would take himself out of the front row, to give him back his money at the box office. Sam certainly wished to take himself away; but he did not want to admit that he was miserable, that he had behaved ill, that the presence of Anita Flagg could spoil his evening–could, in the slightest degree affect him. So he sat, completely wretched, feeling that he was in a false position; that if he were it was his own fault; that he had acted like an ass and a brute. It was not a cheerful feeling.

When the curtain fell he still remained seated. He knew before the second act there was an interminable wait; but he did not want to chance running into Holworthy in the lobby and he told himself it would be rude to abandon Sister Anne. But he now was not so conscious of the imaginary Sister Anne as of the actual box party on his near right, who were laughing and chattering volubly. He wondered whether they laughed at him–whether Miss Flagg were again entertaining them at his expense; again making his advances appear ridiculous. He was so sure of it that he flushed indignantly. He was glad he had been rude.