“Ah, I see and feel, too,” he returned, with a good-humoured smile.
The curtain drew up for the second act, and cut short this playful badinage.
Aveline Gatliffe had been charmed with the magnificent vocalisation of the prima donna, with the admirable orchestral effects, and the grandeur of the scenery; indeed, her attention had been so fixed upon the performance that she had given but little heed to the conversation which had been going on in the box.
Now she had no longer ears and eyes for the performers on the stage.
She turned deadly pale, and something seemed to deaden the pulsations of her heart.
She saw a gentleman in the fourth or fifth row of stalls; by his side sat a lady dressed in the height of fashion.
The gentleman was whispering soft words into her ear—so Aveline judged, for ever and anon she turned her face towards his and smiled.
At first she could not bring herself to believe that the gentleman was her husband, Tom Gatliffe, but she was but too well assured of this fact when she scanned the pair through her opera-glass.
She saw that he was attired in a dress suit, and that his companion was a woman of extreme beauty. She saw also, with the penetrating eye of a jealous woman, that they were on the most friendly and familiar terms.
She felt like one who is about to swoon. Her colour came and went, and the very tremour seemed to pass through her frame, and her evening’s amusement was at an end. She would have given worlds to be at home in her own boudoir.