“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that—you’re so very kind—but I couldn’t really. I must get home at once. Mr. Gibbons will go home early. I want to go home.”
“We will then, of course, return with you,” said Mr. Worthington, resignedly.
“Oh, please, please don’t! It isn’t at all necessary. I couldn’t have you do it. I know the way now, and—please don’t!”
“Mr. Worthington will not allow you to go home alone,” said his wife, with polite weariness of the subject. “The next train does not leave until ten o’clock. Of course, if you really wish so much to return—although Mr. Gibbons is not at all likely to get back before we would—do not hesitate out of consideration for us or our convenience. But I think you would enjoy the opera.”
Mrs. Gibbons stood unhappily irresolute. How could she drag these people home with her, much as she now longed to get there? If they would only let her go alone! After all, if Arnold were off having a good time, why shouldn’t she be gay and have a good time, too?
“Well, if you really want to take me—and it won’t be very late——” She was conscious of her ungraciousness. “Oh, I’ll enjoy it immensely!”
“We will leave whenever you say so,” said Mr. Worthington, with his invariable deference.
So unused was Mrs. Gibbons to going out with any one but her husband that Mr. Worthington’s arm felt startlingly thin and queer and unnatural when her hand rested on it as he helped her across the street. Everything was unnatural. Her acceptance, she found, necessitated his standing in the rear of the house, while she occupied his seat. Mrs. Worthington relinquished her entirely to the promised enjoyment. The music was indeed beautiful, but she still kept hold of the ever-tightening thread of suspense and longing; Arnold might be gay without her, but she couldn’t be gay without him. To think of all she was missing choked her! Mr. Worthington came forward between the acts to ask perfunctorily if Mrs. Gibbons wished to leave, but his wife showed no signs of moving.
It was with the first joy of the evening that she saw the curtain descend, and felt that she could tear at full speed for the elevated road and her own dear ferry and her own dear home. She must get there before Arnold, or he would be wild with anxiety; her desire to meet him in town was nothing to her desire now to head him off at home. But she reckoned without her host, literally. Her entertainers had been met by friends as they passed slowly down amid the crush in the aisle, and after the voluble greetings she was panic-struck by hearing one of the strangers say:
“You’ll come to supper with us now? Just around the corner!”