"Mr. Holt has just been telling us of your splendid bravery and how you saved his life," said Mrs. Newberry.
She was a stout, uncertain nonentity, whose chief endeavours in her narrow world were to seem as slim as she would like to be and as certain of her social position as was proper for a woman of moderate antecedents, who had married a membership in Manhattan's three most difficult clubs. What, of course, she had been thinking was not at all about Stainton's bravery: it was, rather, that Stainton had become quite rich quite romantically, and that he was not the rough diamond which tradition demanded.
Stainton took all this for granted and, knowing not what to say in reply, bowed and said nothing.
"Glad to know you," was what Newberry said: and he presently added: "The cast's in rotten voice to-night. Sit down."
Newberry, the sleek, weary-eyed elderly man, whom Stainton had barely noticed in his first survey of the box, was the membership in New York's three most difficult clubs. He had inherited money without brains, had sought to adjust matters by marrying brains without money, and had been intellectually disappointed.
To him in turn Stainton bowed in silence. His eyes were on the girl, and the girl's slim back was set resolutely toward him.
There was an awkward pause. Nobody seemed to remember Muriel. At length Holt, still in terror, blundered forward.
"Miss Muriel——" he began.
The girl turned. The glory of her warm eyes brushed Stainton's face and passed it.
"I am Miss Stannard," she said. "It is good of you to join us. Do sit down, Mr. Stainton."