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turned to look at Caroline.
    Caroline herself was as deeply disturbed by the first act of the play as Pitt had been, but in different ways. It was not the questions of hunger and loyalty which disturbed her most, at least it was not the answer to them; it was the fact that they should be raised at all. Such matters were intensely private. They were the thoughts one had alone, in darker moments of confusion and self-doubt, and dismissed when common sense prevailed.
    She did not even look across at Joshua, embarrassed to meet his eyes. Nor did she wish to look at Pitt. In showing her emotions so nakedly on the stage, Cecily Antrim had, in a very real sense, stripped the decent clothes of modesty and silence from all women. Caroline could not forgive her easily for that.
    “Brilliant!” Joshua’s voice came softly beside her. “I’ve never seen anyone else who could combine such a delicacy of touch with such power of feeling. Don’t you think so?”
    Caroline felt the movement as he looked towards her.
    “She is extraordinary,” she answered with honesty. She never doubted for an instant that he was referring to Cecily Antrim. No one in the entire theatre would have needed assurance on that. She hoped her voice had not sounded as cool as she felt. He had made no secret of how profoundly he admired Cecily. Caroline wondered now if the regard was personal as well as professional. It brushed by her with a coldness she preferred to dismiss.
    “I knew you would love her,” Joshua went on. “She has a moral courage which is almost unique. Nothing deters her from fighting for her beliefs.”
    Caroline made herself smile. She refused to ask what those beliefs were. After watching the first act of the play, she greatly preferred not to know.
    “You are quite right,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage. She was no actress at all. “I always admire courage . . . more than almost any other quality . . . except perhaps kindness.”
    Joshua’s reply was cut short by a knock at the door of the box. He stood up to reply, and a moment later a man in his late forties came in, tall and slim with a mild, rather austere face. The woman beside him was almost beautiful. Her features were regular, her eyes wide, deep-set and very blue. There was perhaps a lack of humor in her which robbed her of the final magic.
    They were a Mr. and Mrs. Marchand. Caroline had known them for over a year and enjoyed their company on many occasions. She was pleased they had called. Without question they would feel as she did regarding the play. In fact, she was surprised they had come to see it. Like her, they could not have known its content.
    Their first remarks after being introduced to Pitt proved her correct.
    “Extraordinary!” Ralph Marchand said quietly, his face reflecting his puzzlement. He avoided Caroline’s eyes, as if he had not yet overcome his embarrassment at the subject and could not easily discuss it in a woman’s company.
    Joshua offered Mrs. Marchand his seat, and she accepted it, thanking him.
    “Remarkable woman,” Mr. Marchand went on, obviously referring to Cecily Antrim. “I realize, of course, that she is merely acting what the playwright has written, but I am sorry a woman of such talent should lend herself to this. And frankly I am surprised that the Lord Chamberlain permitted it a license to be performed!”
    Joshua leaned gracefully against the wall near the edge of the red, plush-padded balcony, his hands in his pockets. “Actually I should be very surprised if she didn’t have considerable sympathy with the character,” he replied. “I think it was a part she chose to play.”
    Mr. Marchand looked surprised and, Caroline thought, also disappointed.
    “Really? Oh . . .”
    “I cannot understand the Lord Chamberlain either,” Mrs. Marchand said sadly, her blue eyes very wide. “He is lacking in his duties that he has not exercised his power to censor it. He is supposed to be there for our