“The man,” he whispered hoarsely, “sinned for the love of the woman. Was he right? Would a woman forgive a man who deceived her for her own sake—when she knew?”
Ernestine held up her programme and studied it deeply.
“I cannot tell,” she said, “it depends.”
Trent drew a little breath and turned away. A quiet voice from his other side whispered in his ear—“The woman would forgive if she cared for the man.”
Trent turned sharply and the light died out of his voice. Surely it was an evil omen, this man's coming; for it was Captain Francis who had taken the vacant seat and who was watching his astonishment with a somewhat saturnine smile.
“Rather a stupid play, isn't it? By the by, Trent, I wish you would ask Miss Wendermott's permission to present me. I met her young cousin out at Attra.”
Ernestine heard and leaned forward smiling. Trent did as he was asked, with set teeth and an ill grace. From then, until the curtain went up for the next act, he had only to sit still and listen.
Afterwards the play scarcely fulfilled the promise of its commencement. At the third act Trent had lost all interest in it. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He drew a card from his pocket and, scribbling a word or two on it, passed it along to Lady Tresham. She leaned forward and smiled approval upon him.
“Delightful!”