"We came to London yesterday," said Miss Boyle. "Will you sit down, my lord?"
He took the chair behind her.
"Who is with you to-night, madam?"
"My father—he has gone to visit the room behind the scenes, he will not return till after this act."
"May I stay?" asked Rose Lyndwood gravely. "I wish to speak to you."
She gave him a full glance out of soft and rich eyes.
"I wondered," she said, below her breath, "if you would care to come—I have been watching you since we entered—just after the rising of the curtain, my lord."
Those past moments, wasted on Statira's noisy charms while she gazed at him, were too utterly dead, too smitten into extinction by her voice and her look to be even regretted.
"Do not think," he answered, "that I left this to chance, madam. I should have come to Bristol."
She moved half round so that she could see his face. They were both in shadow, only the yellow light from without touched his white silk cuff, and his hand resting on the back of the empty chair before him.