This remark, and Mr. Brown's "English accent," gave Grace the key-note of the air which persecuted the young man's life. He had been educated at Eton and Oxford, and had returned to business in New York, hating his present existence, and indisposed to find pleasure in the many pleasurable things his native land had to offer him.
"I am sorry for him," said Mrs. Caldwell, when he had left the box. "Alan is a very nice fellow in many ways, but his education has been a mistake. His father is very rich—dry-goods, you know—and this is his only son. As he naturally wishes him to continue the business, it was not fair to bring him up with all the tastes and habits of your leisure class in England. It was his mother's fault. He hates business, and he hates New York."
Gunning entered just then, and was presented to Mrs. Caldwell.
"You live near the Rockies, don't you? I shot six bears there last year. It was great sport. I was under canvas. But to live there—Caldwell must find it awfully slow."
"My son has work there, and he likes the life. He enjoys New York for a short time, but he would soon tire of doing nothing. He told me what a charming party you had last night," she added.
"Why, yes. It was a success, I think—I hope you thought it went off well, Miss Ballinger? Oh! Thank you. It's awfully good of you to say so. Every one was so delighted to meet you—and Sir Mordaunt. Sorry you can't come to Tuxedo. Quite a number of people are going there on Saturday. You are going to the hall to-night, of course? And have you cards for the Assembly Ball next week? That's all right. Talking of cards, I wish you'd tell me which is the correct thing in London, to print your address on the right-hand or the left-hand corner of your card? 'Cause it's important to know."
"I am afraid I can't tell you. I never thought about it."
"Well, now, that's curious. We've had quite a dispute about it here. I say, don't you want to know who is in the third box from here—that handsome woman in gray? She's Otero, the rival of Carmencita—and a sight better-looking too—but she's not the fashion like the other is. Fashion is everything, after all, ain't it? This circus is full all the time. Everybody comes here, not that they care for it very much, but it's the thing. Pity it's so big, one can't see across the house well." Here he took up his glass. "Why! I declare, there's Miss Planter and her mother! They must have arrived from Pittsburgh yesterday. If I'd known it, I'd have asked her last night. Didn't you meet her in London? Why, she made quite a stir there—went into first-rate society, and refused a lord, I'm told. You must be introduced, Sir Mordaunt. She is a real belle, Clare Planter is. If you like to come right away now, I'll present you."
So Ballinger rose, laughing, and the young men left the box. On his return, just before the end of the performance, Mordaunt reported that the young lady was charming, the prettiest girl he had seen since he landed, lots to say for herself, and very nice. "A sort of girl you'll like, Grace. Been in England, too."
Grace knew what that meant. They trooped out of the theatre, Grace on Gunning's arm, Mrs. Caldwell on Sir Mordaunt's. Doreen had a double body-guard: Ferrars, whose arm she took on one side, and Alan Brown, who had appeared again just as they were leaving, on the other. As they reached the crowded entrance Grace saw a sallow foreigner in front of them, with a lady on his arm. The lady turned her head—the face was an unforgettable one; it was that of Madame Moretto. There was a block at the door, of people waiting for their carriages, for it was raining.