My lord unfastened one of the white roses at his cravat and flung it at her feet. She carried it to her lips as she retired into the wings, and he kissed his hand.
The audience relaxed after their silence. The beaux stood up in the pit to show off their clothes, some of the ladies readjusted their masks; the porters went round snuffing the candles. Rose Lyndwood leant back in his box smiling to himself a little.
Then he chanced to lift his eyes and saw—her.
She sat alone, directly opposite, erect and smiling at him; their gaze met across the lights, the jests and laughter, that in an instant were utterly tawdry, and he got to his feet, breathing sharply.
Miss Selina Boyle still smiled. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was wrapped in a soft grey mantle; against the shadows of the empty background her light hair showed like a wreath of faint flame about her head.
He descended into the theatre and passed through the noisy crowds, not knowing of them; he opened the door of her box.
"May I come in, madam?"
She looked at him, saying nothing, and he entered.
"I thought you were in Bristol."