the house and mentally calculated the amount of money in it, raising their eyes to the more distant promenade, at the back of which large hats covered with flowers and feathers moved steadily to and fro.  One of them curled his lips and murmured the word “Chant.”  Then they both laughed and strolled out to the bar.  More men passed in.  Many could not get seats, and these stood, smoking and exchanging remarks in the broad space between the stalls and the wall.  Some of them leaned nonchalantly against it and criticised the appearance of the seated audience, or nodded to acquaintances.  Others gathered round the bar, and a few looked at the drop-curtain as if they thought their ascetic glances would cause it to roll up and disappear.  The overture at length ended.  The stage was disclosed, and a man came forward with a smirk, and a wriggle of gigantic feet, to sing a song.

But Cuckoo Bright, Valentine, and Julian, from their balloon-car, still surveyed the world.  Cuckoo had heard the man before.  She was no stranger to the upper regions of the Empire, but the fascination of knowing herself watched and commented on from the stalls was a new experience, and she wished to make the most of it.  Forgetting that she was not painted and powdered, she stretched herself into view and believed she was creating a sensation.  So absorbed was she in the grand effort of being seen, that when Valentine drew his chair a little closer to her she did not notice it.  One of her hands lay on her lap, the other being on the ledge of the box supporting her chin.  She returned eagerly the glances of the stalls.  The hand that was in her lap felt another hand close on it.  Instinctively Cuckoo turned towards Julian, ready to smile.  But Julian was gazing absorbed at the crowd, and half abstractedly listening to the song of the man in the huge, distorted boots.  It was Valentine who held her hand.  She tried to draw it away.  He merely tightened his grip on it and continued sitting in silence, not even looking towards her.  And as he held her hand a sense of helplessness came over Cuckoo.  Even through his kid glove she could feel the burning heat of his palm, of the fingers that clutched hers with the strength of an athlete.  She gazed towards him through the new black veil that was drawn over her face, and it seemed even to her limited intelligence that the man who was so brutally holding her against her will could not be the man at whom she was now looking.  For Valentine, whose profile was set towards her, was pale, calm, almost languid in appearance.  His blue eyes were glancing quietly over the multitude, with an air of indifferent observation.  His lips were slightly parted in a sort of dawning smile, and his whole attitude was that of a man lazily at ease and taking his pleasure in a desultory mood.  Yet the hand on Cuckoo’s knees was vicious in its grasp.  This startling and silent contradiction threw her into a complete panic, but she did not dare to say anything in protest.  She sat silently