"I must not."
"Nothing heavy. Say burlesque or vaudeville?"
"If I dared—"
Shelby put her in the hansom and gave the driver the name of a music hall. The lights of the theatrical district charmed the last prudent doubt away.
There was a moment's embarrassment at the ticket-office. The little theatre they had chosen enjoyed a considerable vogue, and the man at the window could offer nothing less than a box. Shelby was staggered, but recalling his affluence, flirted a bill through the opening and neglected to count his change. Not until the usher had brought them to their box did Mrs. Hilliard comprehend the situation. She whispered, "Oh, Ross!" hesitated an instant, then entering, laid aside her wraps under the opera glass inquisition invited by her blond hair.
"How could you?" she murmured, as the house darkened.
"I wouldn't back down before that ticket-seller with you there behind looking so handsome and swell."
"We should never have come."
Shelby caught her fingers in a reassuring squeeze.
"Don't you worry," he enjoined. "This isn't the Grand Opera House of
New Babylon."