charm as was in her eyes.  The white-aproned, streamered girl who took the order for lemonade and sponge-cakes to a covered bar ornamented by advertisements of whisky, determined to adopt a composite of the styles of both the customers on her next ceremonious Sunday.  And a large proportion of the other sippers and nibblers and of the endless promenading crowds regarded the pair with pleasure and curiosity, never suspecting that one of them was the most dangerous woman in England.

The new refreshments, which had been delayed by reason of an altercation between the waitress and three extreme youths at a neighbouring table, at last arrived, and were plopped smartly down between Audrey and Miss Foley.  Having received half a sovereign from Audrey, the girl returned to the bar for change.  “None o’ your sauce!” she threw out, as she passed the youths, who had apparently discovered new arguments in support of their case.  Audrey was fired by the vigorous independence of the girl against three males.

“I don’t care if we are caught!” she murmured low, looking for the future through the pellucid tumbler.  She added, however:  “But if we are, I shall pay my own fine.  You know I promised that to Miss Ingate.”

“That’s all right, so long as you don’t pay mine, my dear,” said Jane Foley with an affectionate smile.

“Jenny!” Audrey protested, full of heroine-worship.  “How could you think I would ever do such a mean thing!”

There came a dull, vague, voluminous sound from the direction of the Imperial Hall.  It lasted for quite a number of seconds.

“He’s beginning,” said Jane Foley.  “I do feel sorry for him.”

“Are we to start now?” Audrey asked deferentially.

“Oh, no!” Jane laughed.  “The great thing is to let them think everything’s all right.  And then, when they’re getting careless, let go at them full bang with a beautiful surprise.  There’ll be a chance of getting away like that.  I believe there are a hundred and fifty stewards in the meeting, and they’ll every one be quite useless.”

At intervals a muffled roar issued from the Imperial Hall, despite the fact that the windows were closely shut.

In due time Jane Foley quietly rose from the table, and Audrey did likewise.  All around them stretched the imposing blue architecture of the Exhibition, forming vistas that ended dimly either in the smoke of Birmingham or the rustic haze of Worcestershire.  And, although the Imperial Hall was crammed, every vista was thickly powdered with pleasure-seekers and probably pleasure-finders.  Bands played.  Flags waved.  Brass glinted.  Even the sun feebly shone at intervals through the eternal canopy of soot.  It was a great day in the annals of the Blue City and of Liberalism.

And Jane Foley and Audrey turned their backs upon all that, and—­Jane concealing her limp as much as possible—­sauntered with affected nonchalance towards the precincts of the Joy Wheel enclosure.  Audrey was inexpressibly uplifted.  She felt as if she had stepped straight into romance.  And she was right—­she had stepped into the most vivid romance of the modern age, into a world of disguises, flights, pursuits, chicane, inconceivable adventures, ideals, martyrs and conquerors, which only the Renaissance or the twenty-first century could appreciate.