When he became tired trying to think, he made the tour again in a stupid sort of way, then rang for his servant, Burgess, and started mechanically about his dressing.

Nothing any longer seemed real, not even pain.

He rang for Burgess again, but the fellow did not appear.  So he dressed without aid.  And at last he was ready; and went out, drunk with fatigue and the reaction from pain.

He did not afterward remember how he came to the theatre.  Presently he found himself in a lower tier box, talking to a Mrs. Paige who, curiously, miraculously, resembled the girlish portraits of his mother—­or he imagined so—­until he noticed that her hair was yellow and her eyes blue.  And he laughed crazily to himself, inwardly convulsed; and then his own voice sounded again, low, humorous, caressingly modulated; and he listened to it, amused that he was able to speak at all.

“And so you are the wonderful Ailsa Paige,” he heard himself repeating.  “Camilla wrote me that I must beware of my peace of mind the moment I first set eyes on you——­”

“Camilla Lent is supremely silly, Mr. Berkley——­”

“Camilla is a sibyl.  This night my peace of mind departed for ever.”

“May I offer you a little of mine?”

“I may ask more than that of you?”

“You mean a dance?”

“More than one.”

“How many?”

“All of them.  How many will you give me?”

“One.  Please look at the stage.  Isn’t Laura Keene bewitching?”

“Your voice is.”

“Such nonsense.  Besides, I’d rather hear what Laura Keene is saying than listen to you.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Incredible as it may sound, Mr. Berkley, I really do.”

He dropped back in the box.  Camilla laid her painted fan across his arm.

“Isn’t Ailsa Paige the most enchanting creature you ever saw?  I told you so! Isn’t she?”

“Except one.  I was looking at some pictures of her a half an hour ago.”

“She must be very beautiful,” sighed Camilla.

“She was.”

“Oh. . . .  Is she dead?”

“Murdered.”

Camilla looked at the stage in horrified silence.  Later she touched him again on the arm, timidly.

“Are you not well, Mr. Berkley?”

“Perfectly.  Why?”

“You are so pale.  Do look at Ailsa Paige.  I am completely enamoured of her.  Did you ever see such a lovely creature in all your life?  And she is very young but very wise.  She knows useful and charitable things—­like nursing the sick, and dressing injuries, and her own hats.  And she actually served a whole year in the horrible city hospital!  Wasn’t it brave of her!”

Berkley swayed forward to look at Ailsa Paige.  He began to be tormented again by the feverish idea that she resembled the girl pictures of his mother.  Nor could he rid himself of the fantastic impression.  In the growing unreality of it all, in the distorted outlines of a world gone topsy-turvy, amid the deadly blurr of things material and mental, Ailsa Paige’s face alone remained strangely clear.  And, scarcely knowing what he was saying, he leaned forward to her shoulder again.