At the end of the act Sir Maurice and Lady Maitland hurried away, and he moved into the empty chair at the front of the box. Barbara was evidently holding a court; her back was turned to the house, and he could see a phalanx of men breaking rank, shaking hands, exchanging a word and squeezing their way out again. George was supporting her adequately, easily, as though it were natural and as though he were her husband as of right, never seeing that he was a grotesque usurper....
“Are you going to smoke?,” Ivy asked him, as he laid the glasses down.
“I don’t think so,—unless you’d like to.”
“I prefer just to watch the people. I love the opera! I love the music and the acting, I love the house and the people and the dresses and the jewellery. I’ve been here every night since the beginning.”
Eric forced himself to take an interest in her though her enthusiasm jarred on him.
“You’re living with Lady Maitland, aren’t you?,” he asked.
“Yes. She wanted a sort of secretary to arrange her parties and answer her letters and deal with the telephone... I’m quite enjoying it.”
“I knew you would.”
“Did you suggest it to her?”
“Well, I had a hand in it. I was so shocked—I don’t mean morally, but you seemed so utterly forlorn and miserable that night when I came to see you... Are you happy now?”