Gaston looked towards the Ladies Gallery. Delia's eyes were on him;
Alice was gone.

A half-hour later he stood in the lobby, waiting for Mrs. Gasgoyne, Lady
Dargan, and Delia to come. He had had congratulations in the House; he
was having them now. Presently some one touched him on the arm.

"Not so bad, Cadet."

Gaston turned and saw his uncle. They shook hands. "You've a gift that
way," Ian Belward continued, "but to what good? Bless you, the pot on
the crackling thorns! Don't you find it all pretty hollow?"

Gaston was feeling reaction from the nervous work. "It is exciting."

"Yes, but you'll never have it again as to-night. The place reeks with
smugness, vanity, and drudgery. It's only the swells--Derby, Gladstone,
and the few--who get any real sport out of it. I can show you much more
amusing things."

"For instance?"

"'Hast thou forgotten me?' You hungered for Paris and Art and the joyous
life. Well, I'm ready. I want you. Paris, too, is waiting, and a good
cuisine in a cheery menage. Sup with me at the Garrick, and I'll tell you.
Come along. Quis separabit?"

"I have to wait for Mrs. Gasgoyne--and Delia."

"Delia! Delia! Goddess of proprieties, has it come to that!"