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"Nonsense!" Grayson, still pallid and frowning, leaned heavily upon Van Ingen's shoulder. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out upon his temples but his voice was stronger.

"Don't make a scene, my girl." He nodded toward the stalls, where already curious lorgnettes were beginning to be levelled at their box.

"Sit down!"

Doris obeyed mutely, her mobile lips quivering as she sought to suppress her emotion. She was conscious of a shiver which seemed to spread from her heart throughout her limbs. The oppression of a nameless fear took possession of her; it weighed her down. She sat very still, gripping her fan.

"I'll be around fit as ever in the morning. 'Night, Lady Dinsmore. Take care of my girl." Grayson spoke jerkily with a strong effort.

Lady Patricia Dinsmore regarded him coldly. She disliked the man cordially, and made no bones of it. In her heart she had never forgiven him for wedding her foolish younger sister, the family beauty, who had died at Doris' birth far away from her kith and kin in the desolate wilds of New York.