“She did, and looked exquisite in it too.”
“I suppose you were very much in love with her?”
“Yes; we were engaged, and going to be married.”
“Why was it broken off?”
“Her father was a brute.”
“Fathers generally are brutes on such occasions, and there are generally excellent reasons for their brutality.”
“Husbands, too, are brutes, and if all I have heard is correct, there are excellent reasons for their brutality.”
Lady Seveley turned pale. “I did not come to the theatre to be insulted,” she said, hesitating whether she should rise from her seat. Frank Escott was constantly guilty of such indelicate and stupid speeches, and it would be easy to cite instances in which his conduct was equally unpractical. Were friends to speak ill of any one he was especially intimate with, he would answer them in the grossest manner, forgetful that he was making formidable enemies for himself without in the least advancing the welfare of him or her whose defence he had undertaken. With some words and looks the storm was allayed, and they felt that the wind that might have capsized had carried their craft nearer the port where they were steering. Their eyes met, and for a moment they looked into each other's souls. Her arm hung by her side, white and pure, could he take it and press it to his lips the worst would be over—he would have admitted his desire. But the box curtain did not hide him, and the faces opposite seemed to watch; and then she spoke, and with her words brought a sense of distance, of conventionality.
“Tell me, did you fall in love with her the first time you saw her?”
“I think so.”