"That's my husband," said she, in answer to his look of enquiry, then added in a sad voice, "poor old Jones died a month before my leaving, he sent a short message to you,—it was: 'Tell Mr. Morris that he made me happy.' Poor old chap!"
"I am heartily glad to see that Mrs. Montague took my advice. It would have been a thousand pities had she buried her talent because of a scoundrel."
"Have you came across him yet, Mr. Morris?"
"No, not yet," said Reg, slowly, "for months I have been on his tracks, and the other day he was reported to be drowned, but I can hardly believe it, so my friend has gone off to find out the truth."
"Who was that red-haired gentleman in your box?"
"His name is Philamore, he knows you."
"Philamore? I don't remember the name, but there was something in his face which seemed familiar."
"Fancy, my dear, only fancy," said Mr. Montague. "But you, Mr. Morris, you will join us at lunch. I want to drink your health, for it is to you I owe my meeting with my wife."
Reg was persuaded to stay, but he did so reluctantly, as he had half promised to lunch at Blue Gums.
"Will you let me introduce my lady friends to you?" he asked.