Clever as Satan, handsome as Apollo, scion of an old Castilian family, fresh from the tropics. Her imagination dwelt upon the ideas which these words had conjured up.
Three days after this she was at the opera with her chaperon, her lover in attendance as usual. The opera was "Faust," with Nillson as Marguerite. After the performance they were to drive down to Twickenham on Mr. Smithson's drag, and to dance and sup at the Orleans. The last ball of the season was on this evening; and Lesbia had been persuaded that it was to be a particular recherché ball, and that only the very nicest people were to be present. At any rate, the drive under the light of a July moon would be delicious; and if they did not like the people they found there they could eat their supper and come away immediately after, as Lady Kirkbank remarked philosophically.
The opera was nearly over—that grand scene of Valentine's death was on—and Lesbia was listening breathlessly to every note, watching every look of the actors, when there came a modest little knock at the door of her box. She darted an angry glance round, and shrugged her shoulders vexatiously. What Goth had dared to knock during that thrilling scene?
Mr. Smithson rose and crept to the door and quietly opened it.
A dark, handsome man, who was a total stranger to Lesbia, glided in, shaking hands with Smithson as he entered.
Till this moment Lesbia's whole being had been absorbed in the scene—that bitter anathema of the brother, the sister's cry of anguish and shame. Where else is there tragedy so human, so enthralling—grief that so wrings the spectator's heart? It needed a Goethe and a Gounod to produce this masterpiece.
In an instant, in a flash, Lesbia's interest in the stage was gone. Her first glance at the stranger told her who he was. The olive tint, the eyes of deepest black, the grand form of the head and perfect chiselling of the features could belong only to that scion of an old Castilian race whom she had heard described the other evening—'clever as Satan, handsome as Apollo.'
Yes, this must be the man, Don Gomez de Montesma. There was nothing in Mr. Smithson's manner to indicate that the Spaniard was an unwelcome guest. On the contrary, Smithson received him with a cordiality which in a man of naturally reserved manner seemed almost rapture. The curtain fell, and he presented Don Gomez to Lady Kirkbank and Lady Lesbia; whereupon dear Georgie began to gush, after her wont, and to ask a good many questions in a manner that was too girlish to seem impertinent.
'How perfectly you speak English!' she exclaimed. 'You must have lived in England a good deal.'
'On the contrary, it is my misfortune to have lived here very little, but I have known a good many English and Americans in Cuba and in Paris.'