Jane arose and passed into the cloak room. Mills Harford followed her. Pape in turn, followed him. Observing the girl closely as she tore open the envelope and read the enclosure, he saw alarm on her face; saw the sudden tension of her figure; saw her lips lengthen into a thin line.
“Chauffeur brought it. He is waiting down stairs for an answer,” the usher advised her.
“Tell him,” she said, “that I’ll come at once.”
The usher bowed and vanished.
“Anything wrong, Jane?” Harford asked.
“I can’t stay for the last act. Aunt Helene has been—has sent for me.”
As if fearful lest he should insist upon knowing the contents of her note, she crumpled it in one hand; with the other reached for a brocaded cape that hung on one side of the mirrored rack; allowed him to anticipate her and lay it about her shoulders.
“I’ll go with you,” said he.
“No.” She paused in her start toward the corridor and glanced into his face uncertainly. “Tamo is waiting with the car. You must see the opera out. The Farrar probably has thrills and thrills saved for the finale.”
“Not for me—without you. Of course I’ll go with you, dear.”