So with crashing of chords and
thunder of melody the act went on. And when it was over, Juliet
thought no more of the Cornish sea and the lullaby of the waves. A new
music was stirring in her young blood.
They were in the front row of the gallery, and presently she leaned
over to gaze down at the panorama below, the women in the boxes and
stalls, whose bare shoulders and skillfully coiffured hair flashed
with jewels. Suddenly her hand fell upon Aynesworth's arm.
"Look!" she cried in some excitement, "do you see who that is in the
box there--the one almost next to the stage?"
Aynesworth, too, uttered a little exclamation. The lights from beneath
were falling full upon the still, cold face of the man who had just
taken a vacant chair in one of the boxes.
"Wingrave!" he exclaimed, and glanced at once at his watch.
"Sir Wingrave Seton," she murmured. "Isn't it strange that I should
see him here tonight?"
"He comes often," Aynesworth answered. "Music is one of his few
weaknesses."
There was a movement in the box, and a woman's head and shoulders
appeared from behind the curtain. Juliet gave a little gasp.
"Mr. Aynesworth," she exclaimed, "did you ever see such a beautiful
woman? Do tell me who she is!"
"A very great lady in London society," Aynesworth answered. "That is
Emily, Marchioness of Westchester."
Juliet's eyes never moved from her until the beautiful neck and
shoulders were turned away.
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