The curtain went up.  The music of the orchestra subsided, and the music of the human voice floated through the Opera House—­the human voice, vibrant with joy and passion and the knowledge which lies behind the veil.  Juliet found no time to talk then, no time to think even of her companion.  Her young cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright with excitement.  She leaned a little forward in her place, she passed with all the effortless facility of her ingenuous youth, into the dim world of golden fancies which the story of the opera was slowly unfolding.  Beside her, Mrs. Tresfarwin dozed and blinked and dozed again—­and on her left Aynesworth himself, a little affected by the music, still found time to glance continually at his companion, so radiant with life and so fervently intent upon realizing to the full this, the first of its unknown joys.  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.  She leaned over towards her companion, and she did not again, for some few minutes, face the house.

“She is the loveliest woman I ever saw in my life,” Juliet said with a little sigh.  “Is she a great friend of Sir Wingrave Seton, Mr. Aynesworth?”

“He has no friends,” Aynesworth answered.  “I believe that they are very well acquainted.”

“Poor Sir Wingrave!” Juliet murmured softly.

Aynesworth looked at her in some surprise.

“It is odd that you should have recognized him from up here,” he remarked thoughtfully.  “He has changed so much during the last few years.”