Their way led past the theatre.  He glanced at his watch—­the last act was still in full swing.  He pulled the check cord.

“Do you mind,” he asked, “for five minutes?  My answer is waiting here.”

“In my travelling dress?” she asked.

He handed her out.

“It will not matter,” he assured her.  “I can find a seat where your dress will be unnoticed.”

They passed into the stage box, where their entrance, although they kept as far as possible in the background, excited much comment.  They felt at once that they had come into an atmosphere charged with electric emotion.  Little ripples of excitement were floating through the theatre.  Interest had become strained—­almost painful.  A brilliant house had been worked up into a state of breathless absorption.  A little man burst in upon them.

“Thank God you’ve come, Guest!  They nearly had the house down after the last act shouting for you.  Oh!  I beg your pardon.”

He retreated, closing the door.  They neither of them noticed him.  Up from the stage the triumphant cry of a great actor, carried away by the inspiration of a great part, answered her in her lover’s own words—­

“Philosophy is selfishness and ambition a shadow—­the lesson of life is the lesson of love.”

The curtain fell and the storm burst.  She looked into his face with a brilliant smile.

“I am very sweetly answered, Mr. Author,” she said.  “Now let me efface myself.”

Douglas could not escape, for he had been recognised, and the house rang with his name.  He bowed his acknowledgments time after time from the front of the box, and every one wondered at his late arrival and morning clothes, and at the woman in a long travelling coat, who sat by his side half hidden by the curtain.  Only the Duchess, whose box was exactly opposite, and who had remarkably good eyesight, suddenly understood.  She leaned over and waved her hand gaily.

“Gracious!” she exclaimed.  “It’s Emily.”