"Yes, I see him; what a fine, powerful face!"
Barry for the moment made no answer, for suddenly he found himself looking into the pale face of a tall, slenderly built woman seated beside a man he knew—old, white-mustached and of a generally military cut. He dropped his eyes at once and turned his head quickly away, but not so quickly that Mrs. Tracey saw his forehead mantle momentarily.
"Poor little Rose," he thought, "I'm glad she didn't see me." Then he saw that Mrs. Tracey, who was looking straight before her, seemed to have suddenly become white.
"Are you not feeling well?" he asked; "the theatre is very hot."
She gave him a swift, penetrating glance. "It is very hot," she said in a low voice. "Do you mind if we leave?"
"Frankly, no," and Barry stroked his beard, and something like a smile came into his eyes; "I don't particularly care about staying." Then he bent his head closer. "There are some people here——"
"I know," she interrupted softly, "and it hurts you to see her."
"Not a bit," he said earnestly; "but, you see, it might not be very pleasant for her to see me—might spoil her enjoyment a little. And as I know the man too, I'll have to bow if we meet going out."
She placed her little gloved hand on his arm.
"Then let us go," she said softly.