"Then I hope you will not be a lady of fashion much longer," said Earle.
The opera was over; Lady Studleigh looked across the house to see if her enemy was gone. No; he was still there, looking earnestly at her.
"Perhaps," she thought to herself, "he is waiting to go out when we do."
"Shall you wait for the ballet, Doris?" said Earle.
Wait! She would have waited until doomsday to have avoided him.
"Yes," she replied; "I should like to see the ballet."
Then she asked herself if she had not done a very stupid thing in trying to defer the evil day. He would speak to her, that was evident; perhaps it would have been better over and done with. He had still to wait during the brilliant scenes of the ballet. She sat, as it were, with her grim fate in her hands; she talked, she laughed, she played with her flowers, coquetted with her fan, she listened to love speeches from Earle, she exchanged smiling remarks with the countess, yet, all the time she was perfectly conscious that he sat silent, immovable, his burning glance fixed on her face, never for one moment releasing her.
Some friend joined him, of whom he asked a question. From the quick glance given to her, she knew that it was of her they spoke—asking her name in all probability. What would he think when he heard it? Surely, he would say to himself that he was mistaken; the Lady Studleigh and the girl who had been so dazzled with his gold could not be the same.
She was right in her conjecture. He had asked her name, and learning it, had been bewildered. When he first saw her—first caught a glimpse of her face—his heart had given one fierce bound of triumph. He had found her; there was not such another face. He had found her; he knew the graceful lines of the figure, the shapely neck, the sheen of the golden hair, the beautiful face. At first he thought of nothing but that he had found her.
Then doubt came to him. Could it be Doris?—this lovely, high-bred lady in the sheen of her jewels and splendor of her attire? Besides, how could Doris be in that box, evidently one of an august circle; the gentleman talking to her had a star on his breast. It could not be Doris; yet he knew—who so well?—the graceful bend of the proud neck, even the pretty gesture of the little white hands. It must be Doris. Who was the gentleman with the white star on his breast? Who the calm, graceful lady? Who the young man with the face of a poet? He could not solve the enigma, but he would find it out. If it were not Doris, then it was some one so much like her that he could not take his eyes from her face.