"Oh!"
"Anyone else," I corrected, "for of course I was quite as bad; you understand that."
"We were talking of Thomas Loveday."
"Oh, yes, of Tom. Well, Tom, you know—or perhaps you do not. At any rate, Tom has written a tragedy."
"All about love?"
"Well, not quite all; though there is a good deal in it, considering it was written when the author had no idea of what the passion was like. But that is not the point. This tragedy is coming out at the Coliseum in November. Are you not well, Claire?"
"Yes, yes; go on. What has all this to do with Tom's love?"
"I am coming to that. Tom, of course, has been attending the rehearsals lately. He will not let me come until the piece is ready, for he is wonderfully nervous. I am to come and see it on the first night. Well, as I was saying, Tom has been going to rehearsals, and has fallen in love with—guess with whom."
Claire was certainly getting very white.
"Are you sure you are well, Claire?" I asked, anxiously.