"Oh! Mr. Falkenstein," she began, "that exquisite play—you've seen it, of course? Captain Boville told me I should be delighted with it, and so I was. Don't you think it enchanting?"
"It is very clever," answered Falkenstein, gravely.
"Val missed a great treat," continued Bella; "nothing would make her go last night; however, she never likes anything I like. I should love to know who wrote it; some people say a woman, but I would never believe it."
"The witty raillery and unselfish devotion of the heroine might be dictated by a woman's head and heart, but the passion, and vigor, and knowledge of human nature indicate a masculine genius," replied Waldemar.
Valérie gave him such a grateful, rapturous glance, that, had Bella been looking, might have disclosed the secret; but she was studying her dainty gloves, and went on:
"Could it be Westland Marston—Sterling Coyne?"
Falkenstein shook his head. "If it were, they would put their name on the play-bills."
"You naughty man! I do believe you could tell me if you chose. Are you not, now, in the author's confidence?"
The corner of Falkenstein's mouth went up in an irresistible smile as he telegraphed a glance at "the author." "Well, perhaps I am."
Bella clapped her hands with enchanting gaiety. "Then, tell me this moment; I am in agonies to know!"