He was already trembling in reaction before she passed out of sight. He could not trust himself to light a cigarette; and he was thankful for the press of people who gave him time for recovery as he threaded his way to Gaisford’s sofa.
“What d’you think of it?,” he asked, carelessly enough. “I’ve only just come.”
“Oh, it’s good. Ansseau’s marvellous, and Edvina’s singing very well, though I’d always sooner hear her in Tosca than in anything. She’s worked that up wonderfully since the first time it was put on. I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I came to Bohème the first night. Not since... But I intend to be here as often as I can spare the time.”
Dr. Gaisford offered him a cigarette, wondering idly why a man whose trade was in words allowed himself to say “intend” when he could have used “hope” or “expect” without betraying himself.
“Well, you’re wise... if you feel equal to it,” he said bluntly. “Was that the first time you’d seen her since her marriage?”
“The first time to speak to,” said Eric, trying to control his voice.
“It will get easier by degrees,” said the doctor.
“We’ll hope so.”
“Bad as that, old man?”