Sitting far back in the stage-box sat Herbert Karne, who had arrived from Durlston the preceding day. Although he was naturally gratified at his sister’s success, he felt strangely unattuned to the spirit of the performance, and was not as elated as he should have been. The depression which had accompanied his convalescence seemed to have settled upon him with deeper gloom. Try as he would, he could not reclaim that buoyancy of disposition which had been his aforetime. The sudden departure of Lady Marjorie had affected him more deeply than he would have thought possible. Not only did he miss her cheering visits, her dainty attentions, her vivacious ways, but he also felt that, in spite of extenuating circumstances, he had treated her badly. A hundred times a day her face rose up before his mental vision—her face as it had been after he had told her of his past. And, however hopeless it might be, he loved her. Waking or sleeping, she was continually in his mind.
When the lights were switched on after the end of the second act, he recognized Lord Bexley, but avoided a direct glance. He was, perhaps, hyper-sensitive, but—although he might have been sure that Lady Marjorie would not tell even her brother of what had occurred—he felt that if Bexley were to approach him with a horsewhip, he would have no right to display resentment.
The peer was in an opposite box with friends. One of them, a lady, sat sideways, apparently studying her programme. There was something curiously familiar to Herbert Karne in the contour of her face. He was not able to regard her for long, however, for at that moment Guy Haviland appeared at the door of his box, offering to take him to the vicinity of the stage. He stayed there for the remainder of the performance, being much interested in the working behind the scenes.
Haviland and Celia received quite an ovation when the curtain fell for the last time, the author insisting in sharing the honours with his heroine. As soon as Celia had got rid of her make-up and changed into conventional evening dress, they all drove to the Carlton, where the flowers which had been presented during the evening were already displayed on the tables reserved for their party. Herbert Karne was allotted the place next to Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who had arrived with her husband a few minutes earlier. The two seats on his right were still vacant, but he was so absorbed in studying the radiant beauty of Mrs. Wemyss, that he did not particularly notice the fact.
“Good evening, Karne. Glad to see you again. How is the arm?” said a voice behind him; and, rising, the artist was confronted by Lord Bexley. With averted eyes he shook hands, and uttered a commonplace greeting; then started suddenly, scarcely able to restrain an exclamation of surprise.
A lady was standing by the side of the peer, the same he had seen in the theatre. Although dressed entirely in black, her appearance was by no means sombre, for her corsage, neck, and arms blazed with diamonds; the same jewels gleaming from amongst the unnatural brightness of her hair. Tall and erect, she towered above Herbert with an expression of calm triumph on her face; then, as Lord Bexley introduced him, held out her hand.
“I think we have met before,” she said with her peculiarly crisp accent, half French, half Scotch. “Perhaps Mr. Karne does not remember? It was in the Quartier Latin a few years ago.”
Herbert grasped the back of the chair; the whole room seemed to spin.
“Yes, I remember,” he answered thickly. “It would be impossible to forget——”
The lady prepared to take her place on his left. “How charming of you to say so,” she said, as she sat down. “We shall be able to talk over old times. To recall pleasant reminiscences is quite a favourite pastime of mine.”