So, to-night, Yetta was listening to her first opera, and Cecilia was chattering away at her side, their friends coming in from time to time to greet the returned one. It all seemed as unreal to Rosamund as to Yetta, so sudden had been the transposition.
Pendleton came late into a box across the semi-circle; Cecilia shrugged and pretended to be unaware of him. It was the first time Rosamund had seen him since her return, and she was beginning to wonder with some amusement whether he had transferred his attentions from Cecilia of his own accord or at the lady's suggestion, when she saw him hastily borrow his hostess's glass, take one look through it, and dart from the box. She knew what was coming.
"Rosy!" he cried, with his familiar impertinence, only grinning at Cecilia, who in turn just raised her eyebrows and became absorbed in the aria. But he, unabashed, bent over Rosamund. "Rosy! It can't be you! And—by all the saints, is that, is that the creature who yelped at Benny a few short months ago?"
"Be quiet," Rosamund whispered, laughing, in spite of herself, at his nonsense. "Don't be so absurd, Marshall!"
"Absurd!" he cried, in mock indignation. "Is it absurd to greet the dawn? Here we've all been living in the darkness of your absence, and now you're back at last, and you tell me not to be absurd! I like that!"
At his voice Yetta had turned for an instant to smile a recognition.
"Good Heavens!" he whispered, "what have you done to her?"
"It's nothing to what I am going to do," Rosamund told him. "But you are not to make love to Yetta, my dear Marshall; I'm not going to have the child told she's beautiful. Who knows but she might take you in earnest?"
Pendleton grinned cheerfully, and drew a little chair to her side. "All right, my dear," he said, "I won't say 'boo' to her!"
There were other visitors off and on, but for two acts he flagrantly deserted the woman he had come with, and sat back of Rosamund's chair, talking over her shoulder.