Wingrave's lip curled.
"My lack of kinship with my fellows," he remarked, "is exceedingly
well defined just now. I agree with the one philosopher who declared
that 'eating and drinking are functions which are better performed in
private.'"
The two men went on to a theater. The play was a society trifle--a
thing of the moment. Wingrave listened gravely, without a smile or any
particular sign of interest. At the end of the second act, he turned
towards his companion.
"The lady in the box opposite," he remarked, "desires to attract your
attention."
Aynesworth looked up and recognized Lady Ruth. She was fanning herself
languidly, but her eyes were fixed upon the two men. She leaned a
little forward, and her gesture was unmistakable.
Aynesworth rose to his feet a little doubtfully.
"You had better go," Wingrave said. "Present my compliments and
excuses. I feel that a meeting now would amount to an anti-climax."
Aynesworth made his way upstairs. Lady Ruth was alone, and he noticed
that she had withdrawn to a chair where she was invisible to the
house. Even Aynesworth himself could not see her face clearly at
first, for she had chosen the darkest corner of the box. He gathered
an impression of a gleaming white neck and bosom rising and falling
rather more quickly than was natural, eyes which shone softly through
the gloom, and the perfume of white roses, a great cluster of which
lay upon the box ledge.
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