A minute and a half had gone by and not a word had been spoken.
They all sat silent and motionless.
Suddenly Mary jumped up from the sofa and threw her handkerchief away.
They saw her for the first time; her marvellous beauty sent a flutter through the boxes and the stalls, her voice struck upon their ears almost like a blow.
Never was a play started thus before. Mary—upon the programme she was Lady Augusta Decies, a young widow—leapt up and faced the two motionless figures before her. Tears were splashing down her cheeks, her lovely mouth quivered with pain, her arms were outstretched, and her perfect hands were spread in sympathy and entreaty.
"Oh, but it shan't be, Mrs. Dobson! It can't be! I will stop it! I will alter it for you and Helen and all of you!"
These were the first words of the play. They poured out with a music that was terribly compelling.
There was a cry of agony, a hymn of sympathy, and a stern resolve. An audible sigh and shudder went round the theatre as that perfect voice swept round it.
"What was this play to be? Who was this girl? What did it all mean?"
Some such thought was in the mind of every one.