Carey glanced at the girl once, and saw that the tears were dropping down her cheeks. He turned his head sharply away. When the applause died, he turned to her.
“You look very tired,” he said gently. “Are you alone? Perhaps you ought not to have come.”
Bridget made a great effort for self-control.
“I’m—oh!—I’m quite well, thank you. It’s so stupid of me,” she said in a shamefaced voice. “I didn’t know Wagner was like this, or I wouldn’t have come when I was tired. I’ve been walking rather far, and—”
“And existing on buns and tea all day, no doubt,” Carey thought, mentally concluding the sentence.
During the remaining part of the concert Bridget sat silent, and outwardly composed, though she was very pale. When it was over, and she rose to go, Carey put out his hand to help her down the steep steps. As they went down the stone staircase together in silence, he noticed that she rested her hand against the wall now and again, to steady herself.
The light from a lamp in the street outside fell on her face as they reached the outer door.
Carey hesitated.
“You will let me put you into a cab, won’t you?” he said. “You ought to get home as quickly as possible.”
“Oh no, no!” Bridget forced herself to say. “The—the air is so strong, it made me feel giddy for a moment; but it will be good for me. I will go home by train.”