“In something under twenty-four hours, I believe,” said Caroline. “Express trains travel at such a remarkable rate in these days.”
In the circumstances there was only one thing for Cheriton to do, and this he did. He took his leave.
In the privacy of his hansom on the way to the Gaiety Theatre he ruminated exceedingly.
“That old woman,” he mused, “has got all the trumps in her hand again. A disagreeable old thing, but she does know how to play her cards when she gets ’em.”
The stall next to Cheriton’s was in the occupation of no less a person than George Betterton.
“Hallo, George,” said he; “you in London!”
“Ye-es,” said George, heavily. He did not seem to be altogether clear upon the point. “The War Office people are in their usual mess with the Militia.”
“But she is at Biarritz.”
“I have another one now,” said George, succinctly.
The noise and flamboyance of the ballet rendered further conversation undesirable. However, Cheriton took up the thread of discourse at the end of the act.