Before he could finish, the curtain at the back of the box was rudely drawn aside, and a tall, handsome man, with a certain swaggering ease of manner that seemed to assert his right to be there if he pleased, came forward, saying,—
“How goes it, Davis? I just caught a glimpse of that charming—”
“A word with you, Captain Hamilton,” said Davis, between his teeth, as he pushed the other towards the door.
“As many as you like, old fellow, by and by. For the present, I mean to establish myself here.”
“That you sha'n't, by Heaven!” cried Davis, as he placed himself in front of him. “Leave this, sir, at once.”
“Why, the fellow is deranged,” said Hamilton, laughing; “or is it jealousy, old boy?”
With a violent push Davis drove him backwards, and ere he could recover, following up the impulse, he thrust him outside the box, hurriedly passing outside, and shutting the door after him.
So rapidly and so secretly had all this occurred, that Lizzy saw nothing of it, all her attention being eagerly fixed on the stage. Not so Beecher. He had marked it all, and now sat listening in terror to the words of high altercation in the lobby. From sounds that boded like insult and outrage, the noise gradually decreased to more measured tones; then came a few words in whisper, and Davis, softly drawing the curtain, stepped gently to his chair at his daughter's back. A hasty sign to Beecher gave him to understand that all was settled quietly, and the incident was over.
“You 'll not think me very churlish if I rob you of one act of the opera, Lizzy?” said Davis, as the curtain fell; “but I have a racking headache, which all this light and heat are only increasing.”
“Let us go at once, dearest papa,” said she, rising. “You should have told me of this before. There, Mr. Beecher, you needn't leave this—”