"What a strange old man," mused Hélène, as she sat in a box that night at the Academy of Music and listened to an aria from "William Tell." "Why do I think of him so constantly?"
"My dear Hélène, you are not a very attentive hostess," said Charlotte Wendall, a tall brunette. It was after the curtain had fallen on the act, and the box was filled up with visitors. There was always a crowd in the Stanton box on the grand tier when Hélène Stanton was present.
"My cousin Beverly has spoken to you twice, and you have not even intimated that you are aware of his presence."
Charlotte Wendall, as a classmate of Hélène's at Vassar, took a school friend's privilege of saying just what she thought. Besides, Hélène was fond of her, and permitted her to say what she pleased.
"Won't you speak to me?" pleaded Beverly. "I do so want to be noticed! I'll be satisfied with a glance in my direction."
Beverly Cruger had recently finished a post-graduate course at Harvard and was just budding into the diplomatic service. He was a fine manly looking chap of twenty-seven, and as he looked down into Hélène Stanton's face, his pleading eyes attested to the fact that he was more than merely interested in her.
"I beg your pardon," said Hélène, shaking hands with him warmly.
"Hélène is very pensive to-night. I can't make her out," interposed Octavie, a pretty little blonde sprite, and a perfect antithesis to her sister Charlotte. "She is thinking of some one who is not here."
"Quite true," nodded Hélène, smiling.
"Happy fellow," murmured Beverly.