"I really don't know, Mr. Stillman. It's so different. You see, I was looking for something more...."
She stopped suddenly as if it occurred to her that, after all, she could not say precisely just what she had been looking for. "But it's tremendously interesting, of course," she hastened to add.
He glowed even at her eagerness to make him understand that she was finding her very indecision a joy.
"Yes, it was the same with me ... at first," he reassured her. "I've seen this all before, you know ... abroad and in New York. Not precisely this act, but something along the same lines."
"I almost missed placing Nijinsky," she hesitated. "It was all rather mystical and vague.... And those subdued lights.... I wish I could see it all again, now that I've caught my breath. It ... it rather...."
"Dazzles one," supplemented Stillman, leaning nearer and nearer.
A tremor ran through her and he realized with a start that his breath was falling heavily upon her bare neck. He drew back. Mrs. Forsythe had stopped in a casual survey of the house to fix upon an object of interest. She dropped the glasses into her lap as she turned toward Stillman:
"Who can that be, down there in the lower box, staring so at us?" she asked, indicating the position with an exaggerated glance.
Stillman stood up.
"The man with the bald head?" he heard Claire volunteer. "Why, that is Mr. Flint—Mr. Sawyer Flint."