“I shouldn’t bother about the girl if I were you,” replied the other light-heartedly.  “Even if I had been mixed up with her, as you gracefully express it, you wouldn’t have anything to do with it.  I believe you think I’ve been playing the devil with her now, you old moralist!  Hear me swear, by yon pale——­ Dash it! there isn’t a moon—­well, by the cresset on the top of the Empire, that the young person in question has been my model for a brief space, and nothing more.  Only my model in the strictest sense of the word.  No, I’ll pay the cab for once in a way.”

When they had dined, sitting at their favourite table, which, from its position at the end, commanded a view of the bright exotic room, with its cosmopolitan contents, their wants cared for by the head-waiter, who adored Lightmark for his knowledge of his mother-tongue, recognising and being recognised by the forgotten of their acquaintance, who were also dining there, Lightmark proposed an adjournment to the little theatre in Dean Street hard by, where “Niniche” was being played for the last time by a clever company from across the Channel.

“We must go to the theatre,” he said, “unless you prefer a hall; I confess I’m sick of them.  I haven’t satisfied my ideas of extravagance nearly yet.  We will go and sit in the stalls at the Royalty and see Jane May and the others; it will remind us of old days.”

“But, my dear fellow,” expostulated the other, “it’s so late, and we’re in morning dress.  Let’s go to-morrow night instead.”

“Ah no! to-morrow I sha’n’t be in the right mood.  Never put off till to-morrow, you know.  Our not being in evening dress won’t matter a bit, they’ll only think we’re critics; and ‘Niniche’ doesn’t begin till nine.”

On their speedy arrival at the modest portals of the little theatre, Lightmark instructed his companion, with an air of mystery, to wait, and presently emerged, smiling, from a triumphant encounter with the gentleman presiding at the box-office.

“They had no stalls left,” he whispered; “but they’re going to put us in two chairs at the side.”

The house, with the exception of the more popular places, was crowded; and the boisterous absurdity of the farce was at its height.  Rainham at first felt quite disconcerted by the proximity of the ludicrous figure in bathing dress who was leaning over the footlights, and declaiming his woes with a directness of appeal to the audience which alone would have marked the nationality of the robust actor, who was creating so much mirth out of the extremely hackneyed situation.  He had got into the wrong bathing-machine (Lightmark seemed to find it intensely amusing) and the trousers of the rightful occupant only came down to his knees.  Rainham at first was disconcerted, and then he began to feel bored.  He fell into a semi-comatose state of contemplation, from which he was only aroused by the cadence on his ear of one of the most charming voices he had ever heard.  So he characterized it, to Lightmark’s amusement, when they were discussing their cigarettes and the jeune premiere in the interval between the acts.