"We have met before," she said faintly, putting out her hand.
"Did we ever really meet?" he said gently, taking it for a second in his.
He seemed quite exhausted. Now that she saw him close at hand, he looked much older. And his face was grievously lined, deteriorated.
She tried to thank him, to express her gratitude for the way he had extricated them from a great difficulty; but her words were so hesitating and frigid that the manager broke in, shaking him warmly by the hand.
Delacour bowed his thanks, murmured something conventional, and was gone.
Every one was in a hurry to go, too. Marion remained a moment longer talking to the manager, and then they went together through the royal box to the private entrance, where her brougham was waiting. Just as they reached it, he was called away, and an attendant let her out.
Waiting beside her brougham, in the rain, holding the door for her, was Delacour, in a shabby overcoat, his hat in his hand.
Again their eyes met in a long look. His, sombre, melancholy, humble, had a great appeal in them.
She seemed encased in some steel armour, which made movement and speech wellnigh impossible. She thanked him inaudibly.
He shut the door, said "Home" to the coachman, and turned away.