At the same moment, he became aware that Una's little hand had clutched tightly, spasmodically around his arm.
He looked into her face. Its usual pure, creamy pallor had deepened to ashy whiteness, her dark eyes were wild and frightened.
"Una!"
"Oh, Eliot, look!" she whispered, tremblingly. "It is she—Madame Lorraine!"
He turned his eyes to the stage, from which, a moment ago, that voice had given him such a start.
Yes, Una was right. There she stood—the beautiful, cruel woman who had doomed him to such an awful fate; who had made Una's life so bitter, whose malice and spite had been so supremely fiendish—Mme. Lorraine!
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
Every eye was turned to the stage, and tumultuous applause greeted the appearance of the favorite, so no one noticed the agitation of the young husband and wife who, tightly clasping each other's hands, stared with loathing eyes at the beautiful actress.
It seemed to both an evil omen—this meeting with cruel, heartless Mme. Lorraine in the first hour of their supreme happiness after the months of doubt and reserve that had held them apart.