[XI]
In the golden half light of the Opéra, a chorus, soprano voices on one side of the stage alternating with contralto on the other, vaporised the subtle sensuality of the scene.
Violet Silverstairs, turning to her husband, who was seated behind her, remarked:
“How much better the Italian school is than the French.”
Silverstairs, ignorant of either, and indifferent to both, promenaded his glass about the house.
“I wonder why Tempest doesn’t show up? There is Marie de Fresnoy! I saw de Fresnoy to-day for the first time since his duel with Barouffski. What a ridiculous affair that was! I suppose one of these days he will have another with d’Arcy.”
Violet turned to him again.
“Because of Marie? How absurd you are! D’Arcy doesn’t interest her. No man could unless he drove at her with a four-in-hand, and d’Arcy has nothing.”
Silverstairs, still promenading his glass, exclaimed: