June had never before been in the upper boxes.  From the age of fifteen she had habitually accompanied her grandfather to the stalls, and not common stalls, but the best seats in the house, towards the centre of the third row, booked by old Jolyon, at Grogan and Boyne’s, on his way home from the City, long before the day; carried in his overcoat pocket, together with his cigar-case and his old kid gloves, and handed to June to keep till the appointed night.  And in those stalls—­an erect old figure with a serene white head, a little figure, strenuous and eager, with a red-gold head—­they would sit through every kind of play, and on the way home old Jolyon would say of the principal actor:  “Oh, he’s a poor stick!  You should have seen little Bobson!”

She had looked forward to this evening with keen delight; it was stolen, chaperone-less, undreamed of at Stanhope Gate, where she was supposed to be at Soames’.  She had expected reward for her subterfuge, planned for her lover’s sake; she had expected it to break up the thick, chilly cloud, and make the relations between them which of late had been so puzzling, so tormenting—­sunny and simple again as they had been before the winter.  She had come with the intention of saying something definite; and she looked at the stage with a furrow between her brows, seeing nothing, her hands squeezed together in her lap.  A swarm of jealous suspicions stung and stung her.

If Bosinney was conscious of her trouble he made no sign.

The curtain dropped.  The first act had come to an end.

“It’s awfully hot here!” said the girl; “I should like to go out.”

She was very white, and she knew—­for with her nerves thus sharpened she saw everything—­that he was both uneasy and compunctious.

At the back of the theatre an open balcony hung over the street; she took possession of this, and stood leaning there without a word, waiting for him to begin.

At last she could bear it no longer.

“I want to say something to you, Phil,” she said.

“Yes?”

The defensive tone of his voice brought the colour flying to her cheek, the words flying to her lips:  “You don’t give me a chance to be nice to you; you haven’t for ages now!”

Bosinney stared down at the street.  He made no answer....

June cried passionately:  “You know I want to do everything for you—­that
I want to be everything to you....”

A hum rose from the street, and, piercing it with a sharp ‘ping,’ the bell sounded for the raising of the curtain.  June did not stir.  A desperate struggle was going on within her.  Should she put everything to the proof?  Should she challenge directly that influence, that attraction which was driving him away from her?  It was her nature to challenge, and she said:  “Phil, take me to see the house on Sunday!”

With a smile quivering and breaking on her lips, and trying, how hard, not to show that she was watching, she searched his face, saw it waver and hesitate, saw a troubled line come between his brows, the blood rush into his face.  He answered:  “Not Sunday, dear; some other day!”