At last the curtain stirred and parted; Miss Fenton stepped into the yellow artificial light and lisped the prologue.
She was gorgeous in a scarlet farthingale and a gold silk turban looped with diamonds; she ogled the boxes with good effect, and was apt in the management of her fan; the Earl approved her with a smile, and the pit was generous in applause.
She withdrew, reluctantly, from the public gaze, and the curtain was looped back before an Eastern scene.
It had been very handsomely done. Barry was playing, and Quin; the perukes were from Paris, and the management had been lavish in the matter of Turkish mail and jewelled scimitars.
When Statira appeared the house shouted welcome; she turned her eyes up at Rose Lyndwood as she curtsied.
She held his gaze through the scene that followed, and the knowledge of it made her acting splendid—Roxana was eclipsed, vanquished.
The Earl found the high emotions, the stormy expressions, the fierce gestures, the lights, the jewels suited to his mood; he was pleased as he had seldom been pleased at the play.
Statira was beautiful to look upon; she wore her purple with a regal air, as she moved to and fro gold gleamed round her slender waist, her black curls floated beneath her green turban, red lilies, his gift, heaved on her stormy bosom, and her dark eyes flashed to the box where Rose Lyndwood sat alone.
He was held by the passion she expressed, by her movements, her changing voice; the tempestuous play, the angry jealousy, the flash of arms, the glint of daggers, the sonorous eloquence of Quin, the languishing grace of Barry combined to captivate his senses; he did not move or once take his eyes from the scene till the curtain fell on the first act.
Statira, panting and flushed beneath her paint, swept a great curtsey to the acclaiming house.