So it happened that two or three days after his arrival, Haldane accompanied his host to the opera house, where Patti was to appear in “Traviata.”
Seated comfortably in the stalls, he was glancing quietly round the house between the acts, when his attention was attracted to a face in one of the private boxes. A pale, Madonna-like, yet girlish face, set in golden hair, with soft blue eyes, and an expression so forlorn, so wistful, so ill at ease, that it was almost painful to behold.
Haldane started in surprise.
“What is the matter?” said his friend; “Have you recognized anybody?”
“I am not certain,” returned Haldane, raising his opera-glass and surveying the face through them. Then, after a long look, he added’ as if to himself, “I am almost sure it is the same.”
“Do you mean that young lady in black, seated in the second tier?”
“Yes. Oblige me by looking at her, and tell me what you think of her.” Blakiston raised his opera-glass, and took a long look.
“Well?” asked Haldane.
“She reminds me of one of your detestable pre-Raphaelistic drawings, shockheaded and vacuous. She is pretty, I grant you, but she has no expression.”
“I should say, on the contrary, a very marked expression of deep pain.”