knowledge of the French names for all the dishes on the table d’hote menu, and by describing how offended he would now be if any one should detect that he was not a regular London swell; and she, by whispered criticism of a stout party at a distant table, sent such a convulsion of mirth through him that he choked badly while drinking wine.  He had insisted on ordering the wine, and in making Mav take her share of it, although she vowed that the unaccustomed stimulant would fly to her head.

“Rot, old girl.  You dip your beak in it—­it’s mostly froth and fizz, and no more strength than the lager beer, as far as I can make out.”

“How much does it cost?”

“Shan’t tell.  Yes, I will,” and he roared with laughter, “since it’s you that’s paying for it.  Best part of seven shillings.”

“Oh, Will, it’s wicked!”

“Bosh!  This is the time of our lives;” and he chaffed her again about being a secret capitalist.  “Blow the expense.  Let the money fly.  And, Mav, I on’y borrow it.  This is all my affair really.”

“No, no.  You’ll spoil half my pleasure if you don’t let me pay.”

But his money or her money—­what did it matter?  They two were one, reunited after a cruel, most bitterly cruel separation; her face was flushed with joy more than with wine, and her love poured out of her eyes like a stream of light.

They walked from the restaurant to Leicester Square, arm in arm, proud and joyous, enjoying the lamplight and noise, not minding the airless heat; but when they reached the entrance of the music hall—­where he had stood gaping, solitary and sad, a few nights ago—­Mavis met with disappointment.

“Oh,” she said, “what a shame!  They’ve changed the bill.  Chirgwin’s name is gone.  He was acting here Friday night.”

“How d’you know that?”

She followed him into the vestibule, and he asked her again while they waited in the crowd by the ticket office.

“I read it in the paper.  Aunt and I were talking of him; and I—­I had the curiosity to look at the advertisements—­not dreaming that I should come so near seeing him.”

“Never mind,” cried Dale, in his jovial, far-carrying voice; “there’ll be a many as good as him.”

“Hush,” she whispered.  “If you talk like that, they’ll know we come from the country;” and she squeezed his arm affectionately.  “I don’t mind a bit, dear—­but there’s no one so clever as Chirgwin.  Really there isn’t.”

She at once forgot her trifling disappointment.  Placed side by side in extravagantly expensive seats of the stately circle, surrounded by ladies and gentlemen in evening dress, they both gave themselves wholly to the pleasure of this unparalleled treat.  All the early items of a long program astounded or charmed him; and her enjoyment was enhanced by recognizing how completely he had thrown off the narrowness or prejudice of village life.  Listening to his laughter at almost indecent jokes, his ejaculations of wonder when conjurers showed their skill, his enthusiastic clappings after acrobats had proved their strength, she understood that all his natural sternness was temporarily relaxed; he would not allow himself to be disturbed by any semi-religious notions of propriety or impropriety; he was just a jolly comrade for an evening’s sport.