For Wingrave it was providential.  The loud chorus which had heralded the upraising of the curtain died away.  Melba’s first few notes were floating through the house.  Silence was a necessity.  The low passion of the music rippled from the stage, through the senses and into the hearts of many of the listeners.  But Wingrave listened silent and unmoved.  He was even unconscious that the woman by his side was watching him half anxiously every now and then.

The curtain descended amidst a thunder of applause.  Wingrave turned slowly towards his companion.  And then there came a respite—­a knock at the door.

The Marchioness frowned, but Wingrave was already holding it open.  Lady Ruth, followed by an immaculate young guardsman, a relative of her husband, was standing there.

“Mr. Wingrave!” she exclaimed softly, with upraised eyebrows, “why have you contrived to render yourself invisible?  We thought you were alone, Emily,” she continued, “and took pity on you.  And all the time you had a prize.”

The Marchioness looked at Lady Ruth, and Lady Ruth looked at the Marchioness.  The young guardsman was a little sorry that he had come, but Lady Ruth never turned a hair.

“You must really have your eyes seen to, dear,” the Marchioness remarked in a tone of tender concern.  “When you can’t see such an old friend as Mr. Wingrave from a few yards away, they must be very bad indeed.  How are you, Captain Kendrick?  Come and tell me about the polo this afternoon.  Sorry I can’t offer you all chairs.  This is an absurd box—­it was only meant for two!”

“Come into ours,” Lady Ruth said; “we have chairs for six, I think.”

The Marchioness shook her head.

“I wish I had a millionaire in the family,” she murmured.  “All the same, I hate large parties.  I am old-fashioned enough to think that two is a delightful number.”

Lady Ruth laid her hand upon Wingrave’s arm.

“A decided hint, Mr. Wingrave,” she declared.  “Come and let me introduce you to my sister.  Our box is only a few yards off.”

“I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind”

Wingrave had just come in from an early gallop.  His pale cheeks were slightly flushed, and his eyes were bright.  He had been riding hard to escape from disconcerting thoughts.  He looked in at the study, and found Aynesworth with a mass of correspondence before him.

“Anything important?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Aynesworth answered.  “The letters marked private I have sent up to your room.  By the bye, there was something I wanted to tell you.”

Wingrave closed the door.

“Well?” he said.

“I was up in the gallery of the Opera House last night,” Aynesworth said, “with a—­person who saw you only once, soon after I first came to you—­before America.  You were some distance away, and yet—­my friend recognized you.”