“One will be sufficient.”
No traffic of the stage that evening had created anything approximating to the impression occasioned by O’Hagan’s entrance. My friend has been called a poseur. It is unjust. He cannot help it. Bernard O’Hagan belongs to the age of plumes and velvet. His is the soul of a true courtier.
Just within the big glass door he paused for a moment, and, the monocle glittering as he held it before his right eye, studied the occupants of Row B. Perceiving Lady Rundel (a conspicuously pretty woman) staring at him fascinatedly, he bowed. A hundred sighs arose; a hundred hearts lay unheeded at the feet of this incomparable cavalier.
Haverley devoted his attention exclusively to the stage. He was gnawing his moustache.
Throughout the performance, O’Hagan lolled back in his stall, one leg negligently thrown across the other, and studied the ladies, who constitute the principal attraction of this house, with a kind of bored curiosity.
At the close of the play Lady Rundel and Captain Haverley stood in the lobby. O’Hagan bowed low before madame. Then, to her squire:
“I believe I forbade you this lady’s society, sir?” said he.
There are simple remarks which, at certain times, you or I might make, but which you and I lack the stark audacity to make. Made, they strike the listener with a species of paralysis. This was one of them.
Lady Rundel flushed, and started back.
“Captain O’Hagan!” she began——