At the brusqueness of the remark Eden started as from a sting. The old gentleman leaned forward.
"Don't be annoyed, my dear," he mumbled; "I was in love with your mother."
Then with an amiable commonplace the old beau bowed and moved back.
Maule bowed also, and presently, taking advantage of a recitative, he left Mrs. Manhattan and entered Eden's box. He seemed at home at once. He shook Mr. Usselex by the hand, saluted Miss Bolten and her mother, ignored Jones, and dislodging Arnswald, took his seat.
"The season promises well," he whispered confidentially to Eden.
Jones, who had not accorded the slightest attention to Maule, was discoursing in an animated fashion with Miss Bolten. On the stage in a canvas forest a man stood, open-mouthed, raising and lowering his right arm at regular intervals; and next to her Eden caught the motion of Mrs. Manhattan's fan.
"No," she heard Jones say, "I have every reason to doubt that Shakspere was the author of Hamlet. In the first place—"
"Ah!" murmured Miss Bolten. She did not appear particularly interested in Jones or in the man on the stage. She was occupied in scrutinizing the occupants of the different boxes. "And whom do you suspect?" she asked, her eyes foraging an opposite baignoire.
"Another man with the same name," Jones answered, and laughed a little to himself.
Eden tapped him on the sleeve. "Mr. Jones."