he world. Bice too looked up, when the box
door opened, with great interest. She kept well in the shade, but it was
evident that she was anxious to see whosoever might come. And very few
people came; one or two men who came to pay their respects to Lucy, one
or two who appeared with faces of excitement and surprise to ask if it
was indeed Madame di Forno-Populo whom they had seen? At these Bice from
out her corner gazed with large eyes; they were not persons of an
interesting kind. One of them was a Lord Somebody, who was red-faced and
had an air which somehow did not suit the place in which Lucy was, and
towards whom Sir Tom, though he knew him, maintained an aspect of
seriousness not at all usual to his cordial countenance. Bice, it was
evident, was struck with a contemptuous amaze at the appearance of these
visitors. There was a quick interchange of glances between her and the
Contessa with shrugs of the shoulders and much play of fans. Bice's
raised eyebrows and curled lips perhaps meant--"Are those your famous
friends? Is this all?" Whereas the Contessa answered deprecatingly, with
a sort of "wait a little" look. Jock, who generally was pleased to
stroll about the lobbies in a sort of mannish way in the intervals
between the acts, sat still in his place to watch all this with a
wondering sense that here was something going on in which there was a
still closer interest, and to notice everything almost without knowing
that he noted it, following in this respect, as in most others, the lead
of his tutor, who likewise addressed himself to the supervision of
everything that went on, discoursing in the meantime to Lucy about the
actors' "interpretation" of the part, and how far he, Mr. Derwentwater,
agreed with their view. To Lucy, indeed, the action of the play was
everything, and the intervals between tedious. She laughed and cried,
and followed every movement, and looked round, hushing the others when
they whispered, almost with indignation. Lucy was far younger, Jock
decided, than Bice or even himself. He, too, had learned already--how
had he learned it?--that the play going on upon the stage was less
interesting than that which was being performed outside. Even Jock had
found this out, though he could not have told how. Shakespeare, indeed,
was far greater, nobler; but the excitement of a living story, the
progress of events of which nobody could tell what would come next, had
an interest transcending even the poetry.