The old joyous spirit, the keen eagerness for love and joy and life, the Pagan’s gay rejoicing in it, that had been such a marked feature of his disposition before his marriage, came back to him, rushed through him, refilled him.

His marriage, with its disillusionment, had crushed it out of him for a time, and, with that same decisiveness that marked him now, he had turned over the pages of youthful dreams and joys and loves, and opened the next page of work, of strenuous endeavour, of a hard, rigid observance of fidelity to the vows he had taken.  And for a time work and its rewards, effort and its returns, a hard, practical life in the world amongst men, had held him.  That now was no longer to be all to him.

His life, and such joy as it might hold for him, was to be his own again.  The joy of the decisions filled him, elated him.  He felt as if his mind had sudden wings, and could lift him with it to the roof.

Such a decision, when it comes, seems to oneself, as it seemed to Hamilton now, a sudden thing.  It has the force and shock of a revelation, but it is not really sudden.  The great rebellion nearly all natures—­certainly some, and these usually the greatest and best—­feel at the absence of joy in their lives had been gradually growing within him, gathering a little strength each day.  It is only the climax of such feelings that is sudden—­the awakening of the mind to their presence.  The growth has been going on day by day, week by week, unmeasured, unreckoned with.

Immediately the curtain fell, Hamilton left his seat and went up to a door, reached by a few steps, on the level of the footlights, and at the left side of them.  No one hindered him.  The rest of the audience were going out.  He pushed the door, which yielded readily, and he passed through.  A narrow, white-washed, lath-and-plaster passage opened before him, at the end of which he saw a tin lamp burning against the wall and heard voices.

The passage led into a three-cornered room, where he found some of the dancers and an old woman who was huddled up on a straw mat in the corner.  The negro was not there.  The girls stood about idly; some were changing their clothes.  They did not seem to heed his presence, except the one he was seeking, who came straight towards him.  As she moved across the dirty, littered room, her limbs under their transparent covering moved, and her head was carried with the air of an empress.  “Will the Sahib come with me?” she said in a low, soft tone.  She raised her eyes to his face.  They were wide, enquiring, like the deer’s brought face to face with the hunter in the green thickets.

The other girls glanced towards him, and some smiles were exchanged, but no one approached him.  They seemed to understand he was there only for the star of the troupe.  Hamilton looked down into those glorious midnight eyes fixed upon him, and a faint colour came into his cheek.

“I will come wherever you lead,” he answered in Hindustani.  These surroundings were horrible, but the shade of them did not seem to dim her charm.