“Were you at the new opera last night?” asked Mary, carefully avoiding his eye, and sticking to her work, but scarcely able to conceal her nervousness and discomfort.
“Yes, I was there; but—”
“Oh, do tell me about it, then; I hear it was a great success.”
“Another time. We can talk of the opera anywhere. Let me speak now of something else. You must have seen, Miss Porter,—”
“How can you think I will talk of anything till you have told me about the opera?” interrupted Mary rapidly and nervously. “Was Grisi very fine? The chief part was composed for her, was it not? and dear old Lablache—”
“I will tell you all about it presently, if you will let me, in five minutes' time—I only ask for five minutes—”
“Five minutes! Oh, no, not five seconds. I must hear about the new opera before I will listen to a word of anything else.”
“Indeed, Miss Porter, you must pardon me for disobeying. But I may not have such a chance as this again for months.”
With which prelude he drew his chair towards hers and Mary was just trying to make up her mind to jump up and run right out of the room, when the door opened, and the butler walked in with a card on a waiter. Mary had never felt so relieved in her life, and could have hugged the solemn old domestic when he said, presenting the card to her,
“The gentleman asked if Mrs. or you were in, Miss, and told me to bring it up, and find whether you would see him on particular business. He's waiting in the hall.”