“I don’t believe he’ll be there,” she repeated to herself at each step. Her eyes sought the top row of seats, directly she turned the corner, and brightened instantly.
He met her look, and rose, indicating a seat next to him, with a smile.
They shook hands.
“Well,” he began, as Bridget sat down, glancing at her; “you’ve had lunch to-day, I see.”
“I not only had lunch, I had an egg for tea!” she replied, laughing. “Mrs. Fowler, my landlady, was much surprised, and a little indignant; but I insisted.”
“But this surpasses my wildest, most daring dreams of success!” he exclaimed. “I shall begin to believe that my proper rôle after all, is to turn missionary to the girls of England, on the great Food Question.”
“What are they going to play to-night?” Bridget asked, turning to him. She had loosened the gray fur at her throat; it fell round her shoulders, and showed a glimpse of her white, slender throat above the dark gown she wore. There was color in her cheeks, and her eyes were big and bright with excitement.
“The Meistersinger and Tristan und Isolde,” Carey said, looking at the little waving curls that fell against her forehead as she bent over the programme.
He wondered what color her hair was by daylight. It was red gold where the light caught it at the upturned edges.
“It seems rather ridiculous that I don’t know your name yet,” he remarked after a moment.