Chapter XV
IN an orchestra chair at the theater sat a stout, good-natured-looking gentleman, iron gray where he was not bald, with a double chin smooth-shaven between iron-gray whiskers, and beside him sat a lady somewhat his junior in appearance, pale and invalid-like, to whom the strong contrast of her silvery hair and her thick, dark eyebrows gave a singular distinction; from some little attentions and neglects it could be seen that they were husband and wife. The husband seemed tranquilly expectant, and the wife nervously so, and as they talked together, waiting for the curtain to rise, he spoke in a slow, rich, easy voice, with a smile of amiable humor, while she had a more eager and sarcastic air, which at times did not veil a real anxiety of feeling.
“And that is just where you misconceive the whole affair,” the lady was saying.
“I don’t see,” said the gentleman.
“Why,” demanded the lady, despairingly, “can’t you imagine a woman’s liking to triumph over people with her beauty, and yet meaning it to be a purely æsthetic triumph?”
“No, I can’t,” said the gentleman, with placid candor.
“Well, women can,” said the lady, conclusively, and the gentleman submitted in silence.
Presently he asked, “Isn’t she rather old for a novice?”
“She’s twenty-six, if you call that old. She’s a novice to the stage, but she’s been an actress all her life.”
The gentleman laughed in the contented fashion of gentlemen who think their wives are wits, and said: “I think you’re decidedly hard upon her to-night, Susan. It seems to me you have been more merciful at times.”