"Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her.
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