She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Of course I shall!” he said. “Why, last night I seemed to have a kind of interest in it which the other people in the theatre hadn’t. Yes. As if—as if—I knew you intimately, you know. Of course, I shall be there! And I shall bring a big bouquet. What flowers do you like best?”
She almost started, as if she had not been listening to him; as a matter of fact, she had been listening to the deep, measured voice rather than the words.
“Flowers?—oh—violets,” she said, unthinkingly.
“Why!” he exclaimed. “That is what I threw you last night! Of course, you didn’t know. You can’t see beyond the footlights, can you? I’ve heard you can’t. Violets! I’ll get some. I shall take a seat in the stall to-night. I shall see and hear you better there.”
“I should have thought you had seen and heard me enough already,” she said with a smile.
“No, but I haven’t!” he responded, eagerly. “I couldn’t see you or hear you too much if I looked at you and listened to you all day!”
Her face grew crimson, but she turned her head toward him with a smile on her face.
“For flattery, pure and simple, I don’t think you could surpass that, Lord Neville.”
“Flattery!” he exclaimed, as if hurt. “It is no flattery, it is the honest truth. And, Miss Marlowe, I do not ask you to believe—” he saw her start and lift her head as if listening, and looking up to ascertain the cause, saw that her eyes were fixed upon some spot behind him, and he heard the sound of footsteps.