Brock glared so venomously at the intrusive Mr. Ulstervelt upon the occasion of his next visit to his own box, that Mrs. Medcroft smiled softly to herself as she turned her face away.  A few minutes later she seized the opportunity to whisper in his ear.  Her eyes were sparkling, and something in her manner bespoke the bated breath.

“You are in love with my sister,” was what she said to him.  He blushed convincingly.

“Nonsense!” he managed to reply, but without much persuasiveness.

“But you are.  I’m not blind.  Anyone can see it. She sees it.  Haven’t you sense enough to hide it from her?  How do you expect to win?”

“My dear Mrs.—­my dear Edith, you amaze me.  I’m confusion itself.  But,” he went on eagerly, illogically, “do you think I could win her?”

“That is not for one’s wife to say,” she said demurely.

“I’d be tremendously proud of you as a sister-in-law.  And I’d be much obliged if you’d help me.  But look at that confounded Ulstervelt!  He’s making love to her with the whole house looking on.”

“I think it might be polite if you were to ask him out for a drink,” she suggested.

“But I’ve had one and I never take two.”

“Model husband!  Then take the girls into the foyer for a stroll and a chat after the act.  Don’t mind me.  I’m your friend.”

“Do you think I’ve got a chance with her?” he asked with a brave effort.

“You’ve had one wife thrust upon you; why should you expect another without a struggle?  I’m afraid you’ll have to work for Constance.”

“But I have your—­I can count on your approval?” he whispered eagerly.

“Don’t, Roxbury!  People will think you are making love to me!” she protested, wilfully ignoring his question.

He returned to the box after the second act and proposed a turn in the foyer.  To his disgust, Ulstervelt appropriated Constance and left him to follow with Mrs. Rodney and Katherine.  He almost hated Edith for the tantalising smile she shot after him as he moved away, defeated.

If he was glaring luridly at the irrepressible Freddie, he was not alone in his gloom.  Katherine Rodney, green with jealousy, was sending spiteful glances after her dearest friend, while Mrs. Rodney was sniffing the air as if it was laden with frost.

“Don’t you think Connie is a perfect dear?  I’m so fond of her,” said Miss Rodney, so sweetly that he should have detected the nether-flow.

He started and pulled himself together.  “Aw, yes,—­ripping!” He consciously adjusted his eyeglass for a hasty glance about in search of the easily disturbed Mr. Rodney.  Then, to Mrs. Rodney, his mind a blank after a passing glimpse of Constance and her escort:  “Aw—­er—­a perfectly jolly opera, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER IV

THE WOULD-BE BROTHER-IN-LAW

The next morning, bright and early, Mr. Alfred Rodney, a telegram in his hand, charged down the hall to Mrs. Medcroft’s door.  With characteristic Far West impulsiveness he banged on the door.  A sleepy voice asked who was there.