The opera was nearly over—­that grand scene of Valentine’s death was on—­and Lesbia was listening breathlessly to every note, watching every look of the actors, when there came a modest little knock at the door of her box.  She darted an angry glance round, and shrugged her shoulders vexatiously.  What Goth had dared to knock during that thrilling scene?

Mr. Smithson rose and crept to the door and quietly opened it.

A dark, handsome man, who was a total stranger to Lesbia, glided in, shaking hands with Smithson as he entered.

Till this moment Lesbia’s whole being had been absorbed in the scene—­that bitter anathema of the brother, the sister’s cry of anguish and shame.  Where else is there tragedy so human, so enthralling—­grief that so wrings the spectator’s heart?  It needed a Goethe and a Gounod to produce this masterpiece.

In an instant, in a flash, Lesbia’s interest in the stage was gone.  Her first glance at the stranger told, her who he was.  The olive tint, the eyes of deepest black, the grand form of the head and perfect chiselling of the features could belong only to that scion of an old Castilian race whom she had heard described the other evening—­’clever as Satan, handsome as Apollo.’

Yes, this must be the man, Don Gomez de Montesma.  There was nothing in Mr. Smithson’s manner to indicate that the Spaniard was an unwelcome guest.  On the contrary, Smithson received him with a cordiality which in a man of naturally reserved manner seemed almost rapture.  The curtain fell, and he presented Don Gomez to Lady Kirkbank and Lady Lesbia; whereupon dear Georgie began to gush, after her wont, and to ask a good many questions in a manner that was too girlish to seem impertinent.

‘How perfectly you speak English!’ she exclaimed.  ’You must have lived in England a good deal.’

’On the contrary, it is my misfortune to have, lived here very little, but I have known a good many English and Americans in Cuba and in Paris.’

’In Cuba!  Do you really come from Cuba?  I have always fancied that Cuba must be an altogether charming place to live in—­like Biarritz or Pau, don’t you know, only further away.  Do please tell me where it is, and what kind of a place.’

Geographically, Lady Kirkbank’s mind was a blank.  It was quite a revelation to her to find that Cuba was an island.

‘It must be a lovely spot!’ exclaimed the fervid creature.  ’Let me see, now, what do we get from Cuba?—­cigars—­and—­and tobacco.  I suppose in Cuba everybody smokes?’

‘Men, women, and children.’

’How delicious!  Would that I were a Cuban!  And the natives, are they nice?’

’There are no aborigines.  The Indians whom Columbus found soon perished off the face of the island.  European civilisation generally has that effect.  But one of our most benevolent captain-generals provided us with an imported population of niggers.’