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Miss Mason leant a little forward.

“Doesn’t the opportunity sometimes arrive too late?”

The question was put almost involuntarily. It was one she had been asking herself for the last three-quarters of an hour—ever since her somewhat hurried exit from the dining-room; and the question did not refer merely to the opportunity of visiting the theatre. The woman understood.

“That raises rather a fine point of question,” she replied. “Can it be fairly said that one has been given the opportunity if it is truly impossible to accept it, which I imagine ‘too late’ would signify?”

Miss Mason did not reply at once. She wanted to tell this woman about the little cloud which had covered the brightness of her sun, the insidious little doubt which had crept into her mind. Yet she hardly knew how to begin.

The woman waited. She was one of those to whom confidences are given. If she had said anything at that moment the sentence Miss Mason was slowly preparing in her mind would never have reached her lips. It came suddenly and jerkily, it was spoken, too, almost below Miss Mason’s breath.