Before the audience could gather strength for fresh shouting he stepped back, the curtain came down on the stage, the band struck up some of the music of the night's opera, and the great scene—a scene to be remembered to one's dying day—was over; and the panting, exhausted, half-hysterical audience struggled back into some semblance of order.
I had been as much carried away as anyone—the fever of contagion was in truth resistless—and I had forgotten everything in the excitement, even the time I was losing, so vital for the rescue of Sarita; and my companions in the box were equally oblivious. But at the close of it they turned to me.
"Why, they said it was Lascelles," said Mercy, who like Mrs. Curwen was sitting back exhausted with the excitement, for they had been shouting and waving as frantically as the rest.
"I used the name to get in," I replied, feebly: realising how incongruous it would be to attempt to break my news to Mercy in the midst of such a scene. "I didn't expect to get here, but as I chanced to be near the place, I came in to say I hope to be at supper with you at the Hotel de l'Opera."
"You're always coming to say you can't come, but will come some other time," exclaimed Mrs. Curwen.
"I am sorry if I seem neglectful," was my apology,
"You look very serious, at any rate, and as if this mysterious business was a very doleful one."
"When I am able to explain it all to you, you will say I am not serious without cause."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I have no right to any explanation, but Mercy has," she answered.