Roaring accusations that she was drunk; that she had just escaped from Bedlam for an evening; that she should be gagged and turned headlong out, surrounded her; but she stood like a sculptured figure, vital in her eyes alone.  The farmer put his arm about his girl’s waist.  The instant, however, that Anthony’s head uprose on the other side of her, the evil reputation he had been gaining for himself all through the evening produced a general clamour, over which the gallery played, miauling, and yelping like dogs that are never to be divorced from a noise.  Algernon feared mischief.  He quitted his seat, and ran out into the lobby.

Half-a-dozen steps, and he came in contact with some one, and they were mutually drenched with water by the shock.  It was his cousin Edward, bearing a glass in his hand.

Algernon’s wrath at the sight of this offender was stimulated by the cold bath; but Edward cut him short.

“Go in there;” he pointed to a box-door.  “A lady has fainted.  Hold her up till I come.”

No time was allowed for explanation.  Algernon passed into the box, and was alone with an inanimate shape in blue bournous.  The uproar in the theatre raged; the whole pit was on its legs and shouting.  He lifted the pallid head over one arm, miserably helpless and perplexed, but his anxiety concerning Rhoda’s personal safety in that sea of strife prompted him to draw back the curtain a little, and he stood exposed.  Rhoda perceived him.  She motioned with both her hands in dumb supplication.  In a moment the curtain closed between them.  Edward’s sharp white face cursed him mutely for his folly, while he turned and put the water to Dahlia’s lips, and touched her forehead with it.

“What’s the matter?” whispered Algernon.

“We must get her out as quick as we can.  This is the way with women!  Come! she’s recovering.”  Edward nursed her sternly as he spoke.

“If she doesn’t, pretty soon, we shall have the pit in upon us,” said Algernon.  “Is she that girl’s sister?”

“Don’t ask damned questions.”

Dahlia opened her eyes, staring placidly.

“Now you can stand up, my dear.  Dahlia! all’s well.  Try,” said Edward.

She sighed, murmuring, “What is the time?” and again, “What noise is it?”

Edward coughed in a vexed attempt at tenderness, using all his force to be gentle with her as he brought her to her feet.  The task was difficult amid the threatening storm in the theatre, and cries of “Show the young woman her sister!” for Rhoda had won a party in the humane public.

“Dahlia, in God’s name give me your help!” Edward called in her ear.

The fair girl’s eyelids blinked wretchedly in protestation of her weakness.  She had no will either way, and suffered herself to be led out of the box, supported by the two young men.

“Run for a cab,” said Edward; and Algernon went ahead.

He had one waiting for them as they came out.  They placed Dahlia on a seat with care, and Edward, jumping in, drew an arm tightly about her.  “I can’t cry,” she moaned.