"Yes, Mrs. Usselex."
"Look in the orchestra, in the third row, the aisle seat on the left."
"Yes, Mrs. Usselex."
"There is a woman looking up here. She has just turned her head. Do you
see her?"
"That woman with the blonde hair?"
"Yes; do you know her?"
"No, I can't say I know her. But I know who she is--"
"Who is she?"
"She has an apartment at the Ranleigh. Her name is Mrs. Feverill. She is
a grass widow; rather fly, I fancy----"
"H'm;" said Eden, "I am sure I don't know what you mean by 'fly.' There,
it isn't necessary to explain----" She turned her head--"Mr. Arnswald,
would you mind getting me my cloak, there seems to be a draught."
Arnswald, who had been loitering in the rear of the box, went back into
the vestibule in search of the garment.
On the stage the tenor in green and gold was still gesticulating,
open-mouthed as before, and presently there came a blare of trumpets, a
shudder of brass, dominated by the cry of violins, and abruptly the
curtain fell.
Arnswald advanced with the cloak, and Jones stood up. The latter said
some parting word to Miss Bolten and to her mother, bent over Eden's
hand and left the box. Arnswald dropped in the seat which he had
vacated. It was evident at once that he and Miss Bolten had met before.
He had leaned forward, and was whispering in her ear.
"Eden," Maule began, "do you remember that ring you gave me?"
"Mr. Maule, you forget many things----"
"Why do you call me Mr. Maule? there was a time----"
"Yes, there was a time, as you say; but that time is no longer."
"You have something against me."
"I? Nothing in the world."
"Ah, but Eden, you have, though; that is evident: when I last saw
you----"
"The next day I learned your reputation. It is deplorable."
"When I last saw you you gave me a ring. A serpent with its tail in its
mouth. You said it meant eternity."
"Yes, I know I did; but----"
"Did it mean nothing as well?"
"A circle represents zero, does it not?"
"Eden, Eden, how cruel you can be! Will you not let me see you?"
"Certainly, I am at home on Saturdays."
"Yes, I know--Saturday is Fifth Avenue day. Eden, tell me, do you
remember Second Avenue?"
From the orchestra came a murmur, a consonance of harps and of flutes.
The curtain had parted again.
"No," she answered; "I have forgotten."
"Surely----"
"Yes, I have forgotten. It is good to forget. This is the last act, is
it not?"
"No, it is the prologue."
The speech was as significant as her own. For a second he was silent,
and bit his under lip. Then, as Jones had done before, he stood up.
"I will come," he muttered in her ear, "but not on Saturday."
"Good-night, Mr. Maule."
"Good-night, Mrs. Usselex."
With a circular salute to the other occupants, Maule left the box.
Presently it was invaded by other visitors of whom no particular
mention is necessary. At last there was a wail and final crash in the
orchestra. The opera was done.
On the way home Usselex questioned his wife. "Who is that man Maule?" he
asked.
"Miss Bolten is interested in him, I believe."
"I hope not," Usselex returned; "he has a bad face."