“I don't like to believe that,” said Margaret, seriously—“your definition of the world.”
“You make me see that it was a poor jest,” he said, rising to go. “By-the-way, we have a friend of yours in our box tonight—a young Englishman.”
“Oh, Mr. Lyon. We were all delighted with him. Such a transparent, genuine nature!”
“Tell him,” said my wife, “that we should be happy to see him at our hotel.”
When Henderson came back to his box Carmen did not look up, but she said, indifferently: “What, so soon? But your absence has made one person thoroughly miserable. Mr. Lyon has not taken his eyes off you. I never saw such an international attachment.”
“What more could I do for Miss Eschelle than to leave her in such company?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Lyon. “Miss Eschelle must believe that I thoroughly appreciate Mr. Henderson's self-sacrifice. If I occasionally looked over where he was, I assure you it was in pity.”
“You are both altogether too self-sacrificing,” the beauty replied, turning to Henderson a look that was sweetly forgiving. “They who sin much shall be forgiven much, you know.”
“That leaves me,” Mr. Lyon answered, with a laugh, “as you say over here, out in the cold, for I have passed a too happy evening to feel like a transgressor.”
“The sins of omission are the worst sort,” she retorted.