“If I had genius—,” Ivy began diffidently.
“But I haven’t, Miss Maitland,” he interrupted. Adulation was at any time a weariness, and he had not undermined her alliance with Gaymer in order to attract her to himself. “You mistake fashion for fame. I’ve written half a dozen successful plays... I’m glad to see you here to-night. This is a better frame for you than a garret behind the Adelphi.”
Ivy left the challenge where it lay.
“I’ve never been to the opera before,” she said. “I shall come as often as Aunt Connie has room for me.”
“So shall I,” answered Eric, “whenever she or you invite me. That’s one of the few things I’m not tired of.”
It was only when he had found Lady Maitland’s car for her and sent Ivy home in it that he recalled his own words and wondered whether she was reading an unintended enthusiasm into them. Her big grey eyes seemed startled when the lights were turned on at the end of the third act; and, though she said nothing, he felt their light upon him. They were still startled at the opera’s end and looked over her shoulder at him, as he helped her into her cloak. When they said good-night, she drew away her hand as though his touch sent a shock through her body, but she was turning to see the last of him as the car glided away from the door.
During the next fortnight Eric received three invitations by telephone and two by letter; but he recalled Amy Loring’s hint and determined to avoid that one box until Ivy had lived down any suspicion that she was in love with him; he excused himself until he felt that Lady Maitland’s friendship hung by a thread and then chose a night when Louise was being played and he could come late and leave early. As he walked upstairs, the shrill laughter of the atelier scene warned him that the second act was not yet over, and he crept down again to finish his cigar in the hall. He was reading the list of box-holders for the night, when a voice behind him said:
“Hul-lo! When did you get back from America?”
George Oakleigh was standing at his elbow, unembarrassed and cordial, waiting to shake hands with him. Eric was conscious only of an immense, sudden appeal to his own strength of heart and nerves; his eyes had taken in George and his expression at a glance; Barbara was almost certainly with him; and with another glance, not hurried enough to seem apprehensive, he saw her three yards away, speaking to Mrs. Shelley. He had taken in all that he needed, before George was ready for an answer. Unchanged; tall and slender; in a silver sheath of a dress; with a black head-band and a bouquet of the white carnations that she always brought him when he was ill; a white Indian shawl, embroidered with green and red parrakeets, which he had seen her wear a dozen times. All the blood in his body seemed to rush to his eyes, and he felt himself rocking.
“I got back a fortnight after the armistice.”