But he parried this with his unfailing humour.  “I guess I’m too sick to risk that.”  He passed his hand through her arm with the conjugal gesture familiar to Apex City.  “Come along down to dinner, mother—­I guess Undine won’t mind if I don’t rig up to-night.”

V

She had looked down at them, enviously, from the balcony—­she had looked up at them, reverentially, from the stalls; but now at last she was on a line with them, among them, she was part of the sacred semicircle whose privilege it is, between the acts, to make the mere public forget that the curtain has fallen.

As she swept to the left-hand seat of their crimson niche, waving Mabel Lipscomb to the opposite corner with a gesture learned during her apprenticeship in the stalls, Undine felt that quickening of the faculties that comes in the high moments of life.  Her consciousness seemed to take in at once the whole bright curve of the auditorium, from the unbroken lines of spectators below her to the culminating blaze of the central chandelier; and she herself was the core of that vast illumination, the sentient throbbing surface which gathered all the shafts of light into a centre.

It was almost a relief when, a moment later, the lights sank, the curtain rose, and the focus of illumination was shifted.  The music, the scenery, and the movement on the stage, were like a rich mist tempering the radiance that shot on her from every side, and giving her time to subside, draw breath, adjust herself to this new clear medium which made her feel so oddly brittle and transparent.

When the curtain fell on the first act she began to be aware of a subtle change in the house.  In all the boxes cross-currents of movement had set in:  groups were coalescing and breaking up, fans waving and heads twinkling, black coats emerging among white shoulders, late comers dropping their furs and laces in the red penumbra of the background.  Undine, for the moment unconscious of herself, swept the house with her opera-glass, searching for familiar faces.  Some she knew without being able to name them—­fixed figure-heads of the social prow—­others she recognized from their portraits in the papers; but of the few from whom she could herself claim recognition not one was visible, and as she pursued her investigations the whole scene grew blank and featureless.

Almost all the boxes were full now, but one, just opposite, tantalized her by its continued emptiness.  How queer to have an opera-box and not use it!  What on earth could the people be doing—­what rarer delight could they be tasting?  Undine remembered that the numbers of the boxes and the names of their owners were given on the back of the programme, and after a rapid computation she turned to consult the list.  Mondays and Fridays, Mrs. Peter Van Degen.  That was it:  the box was empty because Mrs. Van Degen was dining alone with Ralph Marvell!  “Peter