‘What has become of him?’
‘They quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her ugly old face again. And that delicate little creature in the box next to her—that pale diaphanous face?’
‘With a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?’
‘Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public. If her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.’
At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who asked if he had seen the play when it was first produced.
‘Yes,’ said Harding; ‘I did.’ And he continued his search for acquaintances amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen profile
