He glanced at the open letter in her hand through half-closed eyes as she approached.
She held it out for him to read.
"Mr. Calvert's chauffeur has just brought this. The Bedfords have lent him their box at the opera to-night; the Beadons are going, and he wants us too. The man is waiting for an answer. We're free, of course, but you don't care for Wagner opera, do you?"
Brand took the letter and read it with unusual deliberation.
"'Tristan and Isolde, and please be in your place a quarter of an hour before the orchestra strikes up. We are a party of six,'" he quoted slowly. "That means Calvert, Beadon, Miss Dora, you and I and Farquharson, I suppose."
"Am I to refuse or accept?" asked Evelyn. "You look very tired to-night. Are you up to going?"
"I'm right enough," said Brand. "I think—I'm sure, in fact, it will amuse me, although, perhaps, that wasn't exactly the intention of the composer."
He looked at her from head to foot critically, then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a sovereign.
"Get some flowers to wear—malmaison carnations for choice, if the neighbourhood can produce them. The colour suits you. This is the first invitation Calvert has ever given me, it mustn't be the last. Remember, I rely upon you to do all you can in that direction. Wear white to-night by the bye, you're one of the few women who can; and if the carnations fail, get roses of the same shade."
"Thank you," said Evelyn, lingering still. So sudden, so complete a change of manner made her vaguely uneasy. Brand never gave her money without expecting its full value back in kind.