She was a small, slight woman whose naturally quaint appearance was accentuated by the extreme simplicity of her attire. In the tier upon tier of boxes rising before his eyes, no other personality could vie with hers in strangeness, or in the illusive quality of her ever-changing expression. She was vivacity incarnate and, to the ordinary observer, light as thistledown in fibre and in feeling. But not to all. To those who watched her long, there came moments—say when the music rose to heights of greatness—when the mouth so given over to laughter took on curves of the rarest sensibility, and a woman’s lofty soul shone through her odd, bewildering features.
Driscoll had noted this, and consequently awaited her reply in secret hope.
It came in the form of a question and only after an instant’s display of displeasure or possibly of pure nervous irritability.
“What has she done?”
“Nothing. But slander is in the air, and any day it may ripen into public accusation.”
“Accusation of what?” Her tone was almost pettish.
“Of—of theft,” he murmured. “On a great scale,” he emphasized, as the music rose to a crash.
“Jewels?”
“Inestimable ones. They are always returned by somebody. People say, by me.”
“Ah!” The little lady’s hands grew steady,—they had been fluttering all over her lap. “I will see you to-morrow morning at my father’s house,” she presently observed; and turned her full attention to the stage.