She could not see the girl anywhere; but just opposite them, standing quite alone in the front of a box, there was a young lady in a white silk cloak, and a pink shower bouquet in her hand, and she had the sweetest and most beautiful face that Althea had ever seen.
"What a lovely girl!" she said to herself; and she was not surprised to see that opera-glasses from all parts of the house were levelled in that direction; but the next moment she started—for surely she recognized that dark, foreign-looking man who had just entered the box.
"Moritz!" she ejaculated. "Good heavens, could that exquisite young creature be Mollie Ward!" and then Althea's colour changed as a slight, fair man joined them, followed by a tall, aristocratic-looking youth with pince-nez.
"Father and Noel," whispered Waveney, in a voice of suppressed ecstasy; but only Doreen heard her. Althea's lips were white and trembling; the lights were flickering before her eyes; the tuning up of the instruments in the orchestra sounded harsh and discordant.
No, she had not expected this!—to find him so unchanged. It was twenty-one years since they had met, and yet it seemed to her that it was the same Everard Ward whom she remembered so well; he even wore the same white stephanotis in his coat.
He was a little older, perhaps, a trifle thinner, but it was the same perfect face. Distance and the electric light softened down defects. Althea could not see how shiny and worn Everard's dress-coat was any more than she could see the lines on his forehead and round his eyes, or the threatened baldness; she only noticed that he stood in his old attitude, his head raised, and one hand lightly twirling his moustache. Althea stifled a sigh. Well, she was glad to have seen him again, very glad. When ghosts were troublesome it was well to lay them. And then, though her woman's heart failed her, and she vaguely felt that Doreen had been wiser and more prudent than she, she determined to pluck up spirit and play her little drama to the bitter end.
The curtain had now drawn up, and they were at liberty to seat themselves comfortably in the front of the box. Mollie's and Waveney's eyes were fixed on the stage, but Mr. Ingram, who had seen the play before, was not so engrossed. He had just discovered a picturesque little girl in a sapphire blue cloak, and a curly babyish-looking head who reminded him of his little Samaritan; he wanted to take another look at her, but he could only see her profile. And then Althea's long, pale face and reddish hair came into view, and beside her Doreen's dark-complexioned features.
"Now what on earth has put it into my cousins' heads to come here to-night?" he said to himself, in a vexed voice. "It is not like Althea to spoil sport in this fashion. And they have brought little Miss Ward, too," and then he frowned and twisted his moustache fiercely, and growled under his breath, "Confound those women!" in quite irate fashion.
Any one who knew Mr. Ingram well—his mother, if he had one, or his sister—for there was certainly no wife en evidence—would have seen that he was greatly chagrined and perplexed; but, being a humourist and one of the most good-natured men living, he worked off his wrath harmlessly by parodying the well-known verse, and muttering it softly for his own refreshment:
"Oh, woman in our hour of ease
A giddy flirt, a flippant tease,
As aggravating as the shade
By blind Venetian ever made.
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A veritable humbug thou."