“I wonder if you care for German Opera,” said he. There could scarcely be even the most subtle connection between this and his last remark. She looked at him with something like surprise in her eyes when he had spoken. Only to some minds does a connection between criminality and German Opera become apparent.
“German Opera, Mr. Airey?”
“Yes. The fact is that I have a box for the winter season at the Opera House, and my cousin, Mrs. Carroll, means to go to every performance, I believe; she is an enthusiast on the subject of German Opera—she has even sat out a performance of ‘Parsifal’—and I know that she is eager to make converts. She would be delighted to call upon you when she returns from Brighton.”
“It is so kind of you to think of me. I should love to go. You will be there—I mean, you will be able to come also, occasionally?”
He looked at her. He had risen from his seat, being about to take leave of her. She had also risen, but her eyes drooped as she exclaimed, “You will be there?”
She did not fail to perceive the compromising sequence of her phrases, “I should love to go. You will be there?” She was looking critically at the toe of her shoe, turning it about so that she could make a thorough examination of it from every standpoint. Her hands, too, were busy tying knots on the girdle of her gown.
He felt that it would be cruel to let her see too plainly that he was conscious of that undue frankness of hers; so he broke the awkward silence by saying—not quite casually, of course, but still in not too pointed a way, “Yes, I shall be there, occasionally. Not that my devotion will be for German Opera, however.” The words were well chosen, he felt. They were spoken as the legitimate sequence to those words that she had uttered in that girlish enthusiasm, which was so charming. Only, of course, being a man, he could choose his words. They were artificial—the result of a choice; whereas it was plain that she could not choose but utter the phrases that had come from her. She was a girl, and so spoke impulsively and from her heart.
“Meantime,” said she—she had now herself almost under control again, and was looking at him with a smile upon her face as she put out her hand to meet his. “Meantime, you will come again to see me? My father is greatly occupied with his history, otherwise he also would, I know, be very pleased to see you.”
“I hope that you will be pleased,” said he. “If so, I will call—occasionally—frequently.”
“Frequently,” said she, and once again—but only for a moment this time—she scrutinized her foot.