"We shan't stay half an hour if you don't like it," he replied lightly. "I told you we were going to see life to-night; this is Bohemia, Moira, though with rather a small 'b,' I'm afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of."
They went down carpeted stairs, and in a moment Moira found herself sinking back luxuriously into a cushioned seat, with Charlie beside her. For a moment, a little bewildered and a little frightened, she looked about her with the air of one who had dropped into new and strange surroundings by the merest chance. Someone was singing on the stage; and voices up above had taken up the refrain of the song raucously and altogether out of tune; as the song ceased, she heard shrill whistlings and shouts and the clapping of hands.
"You'll hear something better than this presently," Charlie murmured in her ear; and she woke with a start, and tried to concentrate her thoughts on what was passing on the stage.
Charlie was still smoking; indeed, most of the men round about in the other seats were doing the same. Moira became aware, after a moment or two, that a fat heavy man a seat or two removed from her had leaned forward, and was staring at her; she averted her eyes, and glanced round towards Charlie. For his part, that young man was so engrossed with what was passing on the stage that he had removed his cigar from a mouth that was wide open, while his eyes were crinkled up in laughter. On the stage a diminutive man was hopping about with eccentric gestures, sparring at nothing, and occasionally holding a one-sided sort of interview with the conductor of the orchestra; yet he must have been funny, or why was Charlie so convulsed, and why were the other faces at which the girl glanced timidly, addressed to the stage and convulsed also. Moira decided that there must be something missing in her; the better to please Charlie, she made a feint of laughing also.
After a time it was obvious that Charlie tired a little of the performance; once or twice he glanced at the girl, as though on the point of suggesting that they should go, and yet, in his good nature, unwilling to cut short her pleasure. At last, however, he leaned towards her, and whispered:
"Tired of it?"
"There's rather a lot, Charlie—for all at once," she whispered; and the next moment, taking her at her word, he was walking out of the place with her.
"You mustn't have too much Bohemia all at once, miss," said Charlie, beckoning to a hansom. "You won't sleep after this. We'll take our London in doses, and you shall learn as much of it as you like to learn. Now for home—and Patience—and perhaps a lecture."
They drove home in comparative silence. More than once it was in her mind to say something to him in the way of thanks—to tell him what a night this had been in her life. But she checked herself, partly from shyness, partly because, although this was the Charlie of old days, there was yet the difference between the boy who had known nothing and the man who had learned so much. Only when they got out of the cab, and stood together for a moment at the door of the little house in Locker Street, did she put out her hand to him, and murmur a word of thanks.
"Thank you, Charlie," she whispered. "It has been wonderful. The beautiful dinner—and the lights and the music——. Thank you."