“Do have a choc.,” she invited eagerly.

George took a chocolate.  She took one.  They all took one.  They all had the unconscious pride of youth that does not know itself young.  Each was different from the others.  George showed the reserve of the artist; Lucas the ease of the connoisseur of mundane spectacles; Laurencine the sturdy, catholic, girlish innocence that nothing can corrupt.  And the sovereign was Lois.  She straightened her shoulders; she leaned languorously; she looked up, she looked down; she spoke softly and loudly; she laughed and smiled.  And in every movement and in every gesture and tone she symbolized the ecstasy of life.  She sought pleasure, and she had found it, and she had no afterthought.  She was infectious; she was irresistible, and terrible too.  For it was dismaying, at any rate to George, to dwell on the fierceness of her instinct and on the fierceness of its satisfaction.  To George her burning eyes were wistful, pathetic, in their simplicity.  He felt a sort of fearful pity for her.  And he admired her—­she was something definite; she was something magnificently outright; she did live.  Also he liked her; the implications in her glance appealed to him.  The peculiar accents in which she referred to the enigma of Irene Wheeler were extraordinarily attractive to that part of his nature which was perverse and sophisticated.  “At least she is not a simpleton,” he thought.  “And she doesn’t pretend to be.  Some day I shall talk to her.”

The orchestra resumed; the lights went out.  Lois settled herself to fresh enchantment as the curtain rolled up to disclose the bright halls and staircases of a supper-club.  The second act was an amplification and inflammation of the themes of the first.  As for the music, George listened in vain for an original tune, even for a tune of which he could not foretell the end from the beginning; the one or two engaging bits of melody which enlivened the first act were employed again in the second.  The disdainful, lethargic chorus was the same; the same trio of delicious wantons fondled and kissed the same red-nosed comedian, who was still in the same state of inebriety, and the gay spark flitted roysteringly through the same evolutions, in pursuit of the same simple ideals.  The jocularity pivoted unendingly on the same twin centres of alcohol and concupiscence.  Gradually the latter grew to more and more importance, and the piece became a high and candid homage to the impulse by force of which alone one generation succeeds another.  No beautiful and graceful young girl on the stage blenched before the salacious witticisms of the tireless comedian; on the contrary he remained the darling of the stage.  And as he was the darling of the stage, so was he the darling of the audience.

And if no beautiful and graceful young girl blenched on the stage, neither did the beautiful and graceful young girls in the audience blench.  You could see them sitting happily with their fathers and mothers and cousins and uncles and aunts, savouring the spectacle from dim stalls and boxes in the most perfect respectability.  Laurencine leaning her elbows on the ledge of the box, watched with eager, parted lips, and never showed the slightest sign of uneasiness.