"This stranger has made quite an impression on her," he thought. "What is his name?" he asked, a strange sense of annoyance creeping over him in spite of himself.
"Herr Von Barwig," replied Hélène.
"Oh, a nobleman," broke in the irrepressible Octavie, who read novels as well as the newspapers; "a German nobleman! It is a romance, isn't it? Is he a count, or a baron; or a—prince, perhaps?"
"He didn't tell me," replied Hélène, who could not help smiling at the curiosity she had aroused. They were all looking at her very anxiously now, even Mrs. Van Arsdale, the girls' chaperone, was interested.
"He didn't tell me," repeated Hélène; "really he didn't."
"Oh, well, he will!" said Beverly, forcing a smile. He did not like to admit to himself that he was not exactly enjoying Hélène's romance.
"I am going to see him to-morrow, and I'll make it a point to ask him," said Hélène, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She rather enjoyed Beverly's obvious consternation.
"To-morrow? You see him to-morrow?" asked Beverly, and his heart sank. The lights were lowered and the next act had begun before she could make any reply, and then it was too late. He had known her only a few months, but in that brief time he had seen a great deal of her. He loved her; of that he was quite sure. It was her immense wealth that prevented him from asking her to be his wife. But for that he would have spoken a score of times.
"Where were you?" asked his mother as he returned to his seat beside her in the stall.
"In box 39," he replied.