look.

The car sped by the Monico, and Braybrooke, glancing with distaste at
the crowd of people one could never wish to know outside it, wondered
how the tall woman opposite to him with the diamonds flashing in her
ears had ever condescended to push her way among them at night, to rub
shoulders with those awful women, those furtive and evil-looking men.
"But she must have some kink in her!" he thought, and thanked God
because he had no kink, or at any rate knew of none which disturbed him.
The car drew up at the theatre, and they went to their box. It was large
enough for three to sit in a row in the front, and Craven insisted on
Braybrooke taking the place between the two women, while he took the
chair in the shadow behind Lady Sellingworth.

The curtain was already up when they came in, and a large and voluble
man, almost like a human earthquake, was talking in broken English
interspersed with sonorous Italian to a worried-looking man who sat
before a table in a large and gaudily furnished office.

The talk was all about singers, contracts, the opera.

Craven glanced across the theatre and saw a big, empty box on the
opposite side of the house. The rest of the house was full. He saw many
Jews.

Lady Sellingworth leaned well forward with her eyes fixed on the stage,
and seemed interested as the play developed.

"They are just like that!" she whispered presently, half turning to
Craven.

Miss Van Tuyn looked round. She seemed bored. Paris, perhaps, had
spoiled her for the acting in London, or the play so far did not
interest her. Braybrooke glanced at her rather anxiously. He did not
approve of the way in which he and his guests were seated in the box,
and was sure she did not like it. Craven ought to be beside her.

"What do you think of it?" he murmured.

"The operatic types aren't bad."

She leaned with an elbow on the edge of the box and looked vaguely about
the house.

"I shall insist on a change of seats after the interval!" thought
Braybrooke.

A few minutes passed. Then the door of the box opposite was opened and
Lady Wrackley appeared, followed by Dindie Ackroyde and the two
young men who had dined with them. Lady Wrackley, looking--Craven
thought--like a remarkably fine pouter pigeon, came to the front of the
box and stared about the house, while the young man with the turned-up
nose gently, yet rather familiarly, withdrew from her a long coat of
ermine. Meanwhile Mrs. Ackroyde sat down, keepi