"Oh, no," Lady Valentine answers; "only the first act."
"Do you really want to go, Sydney?" he asks.
"I really want to go," she answers, rising and drawing her opera cloak about her white shoulders.
He gives her his arm in silence, and leads her away, puts her into the carriage, and they are whirled rapidly homeward; but when he sees her safely inside Lord Valentine's handsome house he turns to go back.
"You will not leave me?" Sydney says, pleadingly, and laying her white, jeweled hand on his black coat sleeve.
"I wish to see the play out," he answers, with a touch of impatience in his voice.
"I assure you it is not worth seeing. The acting is merely mediocre. Madame De Lisle has been greatly over-rated," she urges, with a tone of anxiety in her voice, as she looks down, almost afraid that he will detect the falsehood she is telling in her eager face.
"You make me more curious than ever," he answers, lightly. "I must certainly see her and judge for myself. Perhaps the wonderful beauty over which men rave so much has blinded the judgment of the critics. Au revoir!"
He frees himself from her clasp gently but firmly, and runs down the steps.
Sydney stands as he has left her, the rich cloak falling from her shoulders, her hands clasped before her, a tearless misery looking forth from her dark eyes.