moreover, of what he had once heard her say—­that while she could fairly well make out the people in the galleries and boxes, those who were sitting in the stalls close to the orchestra were, by reason of the glare of the foot-lights, quite invisible to her.  Might he not, then, get into some corner where, himself unseen, he might be so near to her that he could almost stretch out his hand to her and take her hand, and tell, by its warmth and throbbing, that it was a real woman, and not a dream, that filled his heart?

Major Stuart was put off by some excuse, and at eight o’clock Macleod walked up to the theatre.  He drew near with some apprehension; it almost seemed to him as though the man in the box-office recognized him, and knew the reason for his demanding one of those stalls.  He got it easily enough; there was no great run on the new piece, even though Miss Gertrude White was the heroine.  He made his way along the narrow corridors; he passed into the glare of the house; he took his seat with his ears dinned by the loud music, and waited.  He paid no heed to his neighbors; he had already twisted up the programme so that he could not have read it if he had wished; he was aware mostly of a sort of slightly choking sensation about the throat.

When Gertrude White did appear—­she came in unexpectedly—­he almost uttered a cry:  and it would have been a cry of delight.  For there was a flesh and blood woman, a thousand times more interesting, and beautiful, and lovable than all his fancied pictures of her.  Look how she walks—­how simply and gracefully she takes off her hat and places it on the table!  Look at the play of light, and life, and gladness on her face—­at the eloquence of her eyes!  He had been thinking of her eyes as too calmly observant and serious:  he saw them now, and was amazed at the difference—­they seemed to have so much clear light in them, and pleasant laughter.  He did not fear at all that she should see him.  She was so near—­he wished he could take her hand and lead her away.  What concern had these people around with her?  This was Gertrude White—­whom he knew.  She was a friend of Mrs. Ross’s; she lived in a quiet little home, with an affectionate and provoking sister; she had a great admiration for Oscar the collie; she had the whitest hand in the world as she offered you some salad at the small, neat table.  What was she doing here—­amidst all this glaring sham—­before all these people? “Come away quickly!” his heart cried to her. “Quick—­quick—­let us get away together:  there is some mistake—­some illusion:  outside you will breathe the fresh air, and get into the reality of the world again; and you will ask about Oscar, and young Ogilvie:  and one might hold your hand—­your real warm hand—­and perhaps hold it tight, and not give it up to any one whatsoever!” His own hand was trembling with excitement.  The eagerness of delight with which he listened to every word uttered by the low-toned and gentle voice was almost painful;