On the same evening when that conversation took place, Lord Chandos went to the opera, where Leone was playing "Anne Boleyn." He waited until she came out and was seated in her carriage; then he stood for a few moments leaning over the carriage door and talking to her.
"How you tremble, Leone," he said. "Your face is white and your eyes all fire!"
"The spell is still on me," she answered. "When I have thrown my whole soul into anything, I lose my own identity for many hours. I wish," she continued, "that I did not so thoroughly enter into those characters. I hardly realize this moment whether I am Anne Boleyn, the unhappy wife of bluff King Hal, or whether I am Leone, the singer."
"I know which you are," he said, his eyes seeking hers with a wistful look. "All King Hal's wives put together are not worth your little finger, Leone. See how the stars are shining. I have something to say to you. May I drive with you as far as Highgate Hill?"
The beautiful face, all pale with passion, looked into his.
"It is against our compact," she said; "but you may if you wish."
The silent stars looked down in pity as he took his place by her side.
"Leone," he said, "I want to ask you something. A crisis is come in our lives; my wife, who was told about that day on the river, has asked me to give up your acquaintance."
A low cry came from the beautiful lips, and the face of the fairest woman in England grew deadly pale.
"To give me up," she murmured; "and you, Lord Chandos, what have you said?"