[CHAPTER XXII.]
"Let us go home, mother, I am tired already. The play is sickening; I always thought so."
It is Sydney who speaks, and her voice is full of restless discontent.
She is in a box at the theater, looking brilliantly beautiful in black velvet and diamonds.
The place is packed from pit to dome; but in the dazzling rows of fair faces, there is not one handsomer than hers, even now when it is marred by that look of impatience, almost anger, that rests upon it like a threatening cloud upon a summer sky.
Mrs. Lyle, a passionate lover of the drama, turns a look of dismay upon her handsome daughter.
"Oh, not yet," she said quickly. "I would not miss seeing the play through for anything!"
"You have seen it often enough before," objects Sydney. "But if you are determined to stay I will go alone, if Lord Valentine will put me into the carriage."
"Don't go yet," says Lord Valentine, turning his eyes a moment from the stage to glance at his sister-in-law a trifle impatiently. "At least wait until Ernscliffe comes."
"He does not appear to be coming at all. I will not wait for him," Sydney answers, and the look of discontent deepens into downright vexation.