“I hope so,” said Fraser.
He leaned forward, excitedly. Not because the curtain was rising, but because he had just caught sight of a figure standing up in the centre of the pit-stalls. He had just time to call his companion’s attention to it when the figure, in deference to the threats and entreaties of the people behind, sat down and was lost in the crowd.
“They have got good seats,” said Miss Tyrell. “I’m so glad. What a beautiful scene.”
The mate, stifling his misgivings, gave himself up to the enjoyment of the situation, which included answering the breathless whispers of his neighbour when she missed a sentence, and helping her to discover the identity of the characters from the programme as they appeared.
“I should like it all over again,” said Miss Tyrell, sitting back in her seat, as the curtain fell on the first act.
Fraser agreed with her. He was closely watching the pit-stalls. In the general movement on the part of the audience which followed the lowering of the curtain, the master of the Foam was the first on his feet.
“I’ll go down and send him up,” said Fraser, rising.
Miss Tyrell demurred, and revealed an unsuspected timidity of character. “I don’t like being left here all alone,” she remarked. “Wait till they see us.”
She spoke in the plural, for Miss Wheeler, who found the skipper exceedingly bad company, had also risen, and was scrutinising the house with a gaze hardly less eager than his own. A suggestion of the mate that he should wave his handkerchief was promptly negatived by Miss Tyrell, on the ground that it would not be the correct thing to do in the upper-circle, and they were still undiscovered when the curtain went up for the second act, and strong and willing hands from behind thrust the skipper back into his seat.
“I expect you’ll catch it,” said Miss Tyrell, softly, as the performance came to an end; “we’d better go down and wait for them outside. I never enjoyed a piece so much.”