"Of course not."

"Then let's go up and read for a little while."

Rose waited until Madame was half way up the long flight before she turned down the lights and followed her. It made a pretty picture--the little white-haired lady in grey on the long stairway, with the yellow cat upon her shoulder, looking back with the inscrutable calmness of the Sphinx.

Rose felt that, for herself, sleep would be impossible until Isabel returned. She hoped that Aunt Francesca would not want her to read aloud, but, as it chanced, she did. However, the chosen book was of the sort which banishes insomnia, and, in less than an hour, Madame was sound asleep, with Mr. Boffin purring in his luxurious silk-lined basket at the foot of her bed.

Alone in her own room, Rose waited, frankly jealous of her young cousin and fiercely despising herself for it. She recalled the happy hours she and Allison had spent with their music and berated herself bitterly for her selfishness, but to no avail. As the hours dragged by, every moment seemed an eternity. Worn by her unaccustomed struggle with self, she finally slept.

Meanwhile, Isabel was the gayest of the gay. The glittering lights of the playhouse formed a fitting background for her, and Allison watched her beautiful, changing face with an ever-increasing sense of delight. The play itself was an old story to him, but the girl was a new sensation, and while she watched the mimic world beyond the footlights, he watched her.

The curtain of the first act descended upon a woman, waiting at the window for a man who did not come, and, most happily, Isabel remembered the conversation at home in the earlier part of the evening.

"Foolish woman," she said, "to wait at the window."

"Why?" asked Allison, secretly amused.

"I wouldn't wait at the window for an unmarried man, nor for a married man, either, unless he was my own husband."

"Why?" he asked, again.

"Because men keep best in a cool dry atmosphere. Didn't you know that?"

"How did you happen to discover it, Sweet-and-Twenty?"

Isabel answered with a smile, which meant much or little, as one chose. Presently she remembered something else that happened to be useful.

"Look," she said, indicating a man in the front seat who had fallen asleep. "He's taking his pleasure sadly."

"Perhaps he's happier to be asleep. He may not care for the play."

"Somebody once said," she went on hastily, seeing that she was making a good impression, "that life would be very endurable were it not for its pleasures."

Allison laughed. He had the sense of discovering a bright star that had been temporarily overshadowed by surrounding planets.

"I didn't know you could talk so well," he observed, with evident admiration.

Isabel flushed with pleasure--not guilt. She had no thought of sailing under false colours, but reflected the life about her as innocently as a mirror might, if conveniently placed.

Repeated curtain calls for the leading woman, at the end of the third act, delayed the final curtain by the few minutes that would have enabled them to catch the earlier of the two theatre trains. Allison was not wholly displeased, though he feared that Aunt Francesca and Rose might be unduly anxious about Isabel. As they had more than an hour and a half to wait, before the last train, he suggested going to a popular restaurant.

Thrilled with pleasure and excitement, she eagerly consented. Fortunately, she did not have to talk much, for the chatter of the gay crowd, and the hard-working orchestra made conversation difficult, if not impossible.

"I've never been in a place like this before," she ventured. "So late, I mean."

"But you enjoy it, don't you?"

"Oh, yes! So much!" The dark eyes that turned to his were full of happy eagerness, like a child's.

Allison's pulses quickened, with man's insatiable love of Youth. "We'll do it again," he said, "if you'll come with me."

"I will, if Aunt Francesca will let me."

"She's willing to trust you with me, I think. She's known me ever since I was born and she helped father bring me up. Aunt Francesca has been like a mother to me."

"She says she doesn't care for the theatre," resumed Isabel, who did not care to talk about Aunt Francesca, "but I love it. I believe I could go every night."

"Don't make the mistake of going too often to see what pleases you, for you might tire of it. Perhaps plays 'keep best in a cool, dry atmosphere,' as you say men do."

"You're laughing at me," she said, reproachfully.

"Indeed I'm not. I knew a man once who fell desperately in love with a woman, and, as soon as he found that she cared for him, he started for the uttermost ends of the earth."

"What for?"

"That they might not risk losing their love for each other, through satiety. You know it's said to die more often of indigestion than starvation."

"I don't know anything about it," she murmured with downcast eyes.

"You will, though, before long. Some awkward, half-baked young man about twenty will come to you, bearing the divine fire."

"I don't know any," she answered.

"How about the pleasing child who called upon you the other night, with the imported bonbons?" Allison's tone was not wholly kind, for he had just discovered that he did not like Romeo Crosby.

Isabel became fairly radiant with smiles.

"Wasn't he too funny?"

"He's all right," returned Allison, generously, "I'm afraid, however, that he'll be taking you out so much that I won't have a chance."

"Oh, no!" said Isabel, softly. Then she added with frankness utterly free from coquetry, "I like you much better."

"Really? Why, please?"

"Oh, I don't know. You're so much more, well, grown-up, you know, and more refined."

"Thank you, I'm glad the slight foreign polish distinguishes me somewhat"

"Cousin Rose said you were very distinguished." She watched him narrowly as she spoke.

"So is Cousin Rose. In fact, no one could be more so," he answered, with evident approval.

"Is she going to play your accompaniments for you, when you begin the season?"

A shadow crossed his face. "I'm afraid not. I wish she could."

"Why can't she?"

"On account of Madame Grundy. It wouldn't be proper."

"I don't see why," objected Isabel, daringly. "She's ten years older than you are."

Allison bit his lips and the expression of his face subtly changed. "You're ten years younger," he replied, coldly, "and I couldn't take you. That doesn't make any difference."

Seeing that she had made a mistake, Isabel sat quietly in her chair and watched the people around her until it was time to go. Greatly to her delight, they went to the station in an automobile.

"Isn't this glorious!" she cried. "I'm so glad the Crosbys are going to have one. I hope they'll take me often."

With the sure instinct of Primitive Woman, she had said the one thing calculated to make Allison forget his momentary change of mood.

"I'm sorry I have none," he said. "'Romeo Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?' How times have changed! The modern Lochinvar has a touring-car, and some day you'll be eloping in the most up-to-date fashion."

"What makes you talk to me about him?" queried Isabel, with uplifted eyes. "You know I don't like him."

"All right," he answered, good-naturedly. "I won't. I hope Aunt Francesca won't be worried about you because we're so late in getting back."

"I don't see why she should mind. Mamma never cares what I do. She's often been away for weeks, lecturing, and I've been in the hotel alone."

He repressed the uncharitable comment that was upon his lips and reverted to the subject of the play. "I'm glad you've enjoyed it. I wanted you to have a good time."