Ernestine yawned, and her hostess threw more than one
pitying glance towards her.
Afterwards the whole party adjourned to the theatre, altogether in
an informal manner. Some of the guests had carriages waiting,
others went down in hansoms. Ernestine was rather late in coming
downstairs and found Trent waiting for her in the hall. She was
wearing a wonderful black satin opera cloak with pale green lining,
her maid had touched up her hair and wound a string of pearls around
her neck. He watched her as she came slowly down the stairs,
buttoning her gloves, and looking at him with eyebrows faintly
raised to see him waiting there alone. After all, what folly! Was
it likely that wealth, however great, could ever make him of her
world, could ever bring him in reality one degree nearer to her?
That night he had lost all confidence. He told himself that it was
the rankest presumption to even think of her.
"The others," he said, "have gone on. Lady Tresham left word that
I was to take you."
She glanced at the old-fashioned clock which stood in the corner
of the hall.
"How ridiculous to have hurried so!" she said. One might surely be
comfortable here instead of waiting at the theatre."
She walked towards the door with him. His own little night-brougham
was waiting there, and she stepped into it.
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