That evening when they reached their seats Dan observed that Allen Thatcher sat immediately in front of them.  He turned and nodded to Dan, and his eyes took in Marian.  In a moment she murmured an inquiry as to who the young man was; and Harwood was aware thereafter that Marian divided her attention between Allen and the stage.  Allen turned once or twice in the entr’actes with some comment on the play, and Marian was pleased with his profile; moreover he bore a name with which she had long been familiar.  As the curtain fell she whispered to Harwood:—­

“You must introduce me to Mr. Thatcher,—­please—!  His father and papa are friends, and I’ve heard so much about the family that I just have to know him.”

Harwood looked down at her gravely to be sure it was not one of her jokes, but she was entirely serious.  He felt that he must take a stand with her; if her father and mother were unaware of her venturesome nature he still had his responsibility, and it was not incumbent on him to widen her acquaintance.

“No!” he said flatly.

But Marian knew a trick or two.  She loitered by her seat adjusting her wrap with unnecessary deliberation.  Allen, wishing to arrange an appointment with Dan for luncheon the next day, waited for him to come into the aisle.  Dan had not the slightest idea of introducing his charge to Allen or to any one else, and he stepped in front of her to get rid of his friend with the fewest words possible.  But Marian so disposed herself at his elbow that he could not without awkwardness refuse her.

She murmured Allen’s name cordially, leveling her eyes at him smilingly.

“I’ve often heard Mr. Harwood speak of you, Mr. Thatcher!  He has a great way of speaking of his friends!”

Allen was not a forthputting person, and Dan’s manner was not encouraging; but the trio remained together necessarily through the aisle to the foyer.

Marian took advantage of their slow exit to discuss the play and with entire sophistication, expressing astonishment that Allen was lukewarm in his praise of it.  He could not agree with her that the leading woman was beautiful, but she laughed when he remarked, with his droll intonation, that the star reminded him of a dressed-up mannikin in a clothing-store window.

“That is just the kind of thing I imagined you would say.  My aunt, Mrs. Owen, says that you always say something different.”

“Oh, Aunt Sally!  She’s the grandest of women.  I wish she were my aunt.  I have aunts I could trade for her.”

At the door Allen paused.  Marian, running on blithely, gave him no opportunity to make his adieux.

“Oh, aren’t you going our way?” she demanded, in a tone of invitation.