s down," said Henry, "we
can both get up to her box before the rush!..."

"There won't be any rush."

"Well, anyhow, we can get up to the box pretty quickly!"

Gilbert walked away without replying, and Henry sat back in his seat and
watched the boxes so that he might see Lady Cecily the moment she
entered. His stall was in the last row, against the first row of the
pit, and the girls who had applauded Miss Terry and Sir Charles Wyndham
were still identifying the fashionable people.

"I tell you it _is_ 'im," said the more assertive of the two.

"I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_ the time that feller ...
wot's 'is name ... the one that 'anged all 'is wives in the coal-cellar
... you know!..."

"I know," the other girl replied. "'Orrible case, I call it!"

"Well, 'e defended 'im. I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_
myself. Very 'andsome man, eh? They do say!..."

Lady Cecily came into her box, followed by her husband, and Henry looked
steadily up at her in the hope that she would see him, but she did not
glance in his direction. He could see that she had found Gilbert in the
audience, but Gilbert was not looking at her. An odd sensation of
jealousy ran through him. He suddenly resented her familiarity with
Gilbert. He remembered that she had called him by his Christian name,
that she distinguished between him and other men by calling him by his
proper name, and not by some fanciful perversion of it. If only she
would call _him_ by his Christian name!...

She was leaning on the edge of the box, and looking about the
auditorium.

"That's Lydy Cecily Jyne!" he heard the assertive girl behind him
saying.

"'Oo?'"

"Lydy Cecily Jyne. _You_ know!"

Her husband leant back in his seat, stifling a yawn as he did so, and
Henry saw that he was a faded, insignificant-looking man whose head
sloped so sharply that it seemed to be galloping away from his forehead;
but he did not pay much attention to him. His eyes were fixed on Lady
Cecily.

"A bit 'ot, she is," the girl behind him was saying. "Well, I mean to
say!..."

But what she meant to say, Henry neither knew nor cared. The lights in
the theatre were lowered, leaving only the bright, warm glow of the
footlights on the heavy curtain. He could see Lady Cecily's face still
golden and glowing even in the darkness.

"My dear," said the girl behind him, "the things I've 'eard ... well,
they'd fill a book!"

Then the curtain went up and the play