“Yes, I suppose Maggie is a good-looking girl; she is more a fascinating girl than a beautiful girl.” A sudden remembrance of Lizzie Baker dictated this opinion of Maggie Brookes.
“Dinner is on the table, my lady.”
“I think you said in your letter that you were going to have two young girls staying with you.”
“Yes, but they could not come; they were to have been here on Monday. I am very sorry; had I known for certain that you were coming, I would have arranged to have some one to meet you.”
“I am very glad you didn't.” The conversation dropped. “You said you were going to the theatre. What theatre are you thinking of going to?”
“My neuralgia put all thoughts of the theatre out of my head. I have a box for the Gaiety. We will go if you like.”
The name of the theatre reminded him of Lizzie Baker, and he compared the pale, refined face of the bar girl with the over-coloured woman—his hostess. He had not seen Lizzie for a long time. Why had he not gone to the bar room the last time he was in London?
“You have not answered me—would you like to go to the Gaiety?”
“I am sure I beg your pardon,” and then, in a sudden confusion of memories and desires, he said: “I don't know that I care much about going to the theatre. You are not feeling well.”
“My neuralgia is almost all gone. There's nothing like champagne for it. Hardwick, Mr. Escott will take some more champagne.”