Christopher turned away from Barbara, as she approached him, veiled, and walked to the window, through which he looked on the night, seeing nothing.
‘Chris!’ said Barbara, in a pathetic, wounded voice. ‘Chris!’ Mechanically she raised her veil and looked round upon her uncle with a pale scared face.
‘Stretton!’ roared Carl, leaping at him and laying forcible hands upon him, forgetful of his own sprained wrist. ‘Is this Miss Allen?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, with a sob which would have way in spite of him.
‘Then it isn’t Mademoiselle Hélène,’ said Carl.
Christopher turned with bewildered looks.
‘Tell me,’ he said to Barbara wildly, ‘are you playing at the Garrick Theatre?’
‘You’ve been a-drinking, Christopher,’ said Barbara’s uncle plaintively.
‘No,’ said Barbara, frightened as she well might be at the presence of strangers at this curious scene, and at the scene itself. ‘Uncle had business in London, and he brought me with him this afternoon. We heard that you had written the music to a play, and we went to hear it. We—we thought you would be conducting, and that I should see you there.’
Little Barbara put up her hands and began to cry.