He found the box door open and the box itself, to his surprise, empty.  There was no sign anywhere of Beatrice.  He waited for a little time.  Then he rang the bell for the attendant but could hear no news of her.  His uneasiness increased as the curtain at last fell and she had not returned.  He hurried round to the back, but Elizabeth, when he told her, only smiled.

“Why, there’s nothing to worry about, dear,” she said.  “Beatrice can take care of herself.  Perhaps she thought it more tactful to hurry on home tonight.  She is really just as kind-hearted as she can be, you know, Philip, underneath all that pent-up, passionate desire for just a small share of the good things of life.  She has wasted so much of herself in longings.  Poor child!  I sometimes wonder that she is as level-headed as she seems to be.  Now I am ready.”

They passed down the corridor amidst a little chorus of good nights, and stepped into the automobile which was waiting.  As it glided off she suddenly came closer to him.

“Philip,” she whispered, “it’s true, isn’t it?  Put your arms around me.  You are driving me home—­say it’s true!”

Elizabeth sat up presently, a little dazed.  Her fingers were still gripping Philip’s almost fiercely.  The automobile had stopped.

“I haven’t the least idea where we are,” she murmured.

“And I forgot to tell you,” he laughed, as he helped her out.  “I took the suite below mine by the week.  There are two or three rooms, and an extra one for Beatrice.  Of course, it’s small, but then with this London idea before us—­”

“Such extravagance!” she interrupted.  “Your own rooms would have done quite nicely, only it is a luxury to have a place for Phoebe.  I hope Beatrice won’t have gone to bed.”

“I am sure she won’t,” he replied.  “She has done all the arranging for me—­she and Phoebe together.”

They crossed the pavement and entered the lift.  The attendant grinned broadly as he stopped at the eighth floor, and held out his hand for the tip for which Philip had been fumbling.  The door of the suite was opened before they could reach the bell.  Elizabeth’s maid, Phoebe, came forward to take her mistress’ cloak, and the floor valet was there to relieve Philip of his overcoat.  A waiter was hovering in the background.

“Supper is served in the dining room, sir,” he announced.  “Shall I open the wine?”

Philip nodded and showed Elizabeth over the little flat, finally ushering her into the small, round dining room.

“It’s perfectly delightful,” she declared, “but we don’t need nearly so much room, Philip.  What a dear little dining table and what a delicious supper!  Everything I like best in the world, from pate de foie gras to cold asparagus.  You are a dear.”

The waiter disappeared with a little bow.  They were alone at last.  She held his hands tightly.  She was trembling.  The forced composure of the last few minutes seemed to have left her.