"As air in London in November? I'm with him there."

"He means that there's no such thing as a good philosopher."

"Then I hope he has an appet.i.te for dinner. The man without philosophy usually has."

The butler had just announced dinner.

There was not much talk among them of philosophy so long as the footmen were floating round them like mighty tropical birds. They talked of the House of Commons instead. A new measure was to be introduced the next night: something that threatened beer and satisfied no party; not even the teetotalers--only the wives of the teetotalers. Then they had a few words regarding George Holland's article in the _Zeit Geist_. Mr. Linton seemed to some extent interested in the contentions of the rector of St.

Chad's; and Herbert agreed with him when he expressed the opinion that the two greatest problems that the Church had to face were: How to get people with intelligence to go to church, and what to do with them when they were there.

In an hour they were in their box at Covent Garden listening to the sensuous music of "Carmen," and comparing the sauciness of the charming little devil who sang the habanera, with the piquancy of the last _Carmen_ but three, and with the refinement of the one who had made so great a success at Munich. They agreed that the savagery of the newest was very fascinating,--Stephen Linton called it womanly,--but they thought they should like to hear her in the third act before p.r.o.nouncing a definite opinion regarding her capacity.

Then the husband left the box to talk to some people who were seated opposite.

"You know everything?" she said.

"Everything," said Herbert. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"For running away? Oh, Bertie, you cannot have heard all."

"For forcing you to write me that letter--can you ever forgive me?"

"Oh, the letter? Oh, Bertie, we were both wrong--terribly wrong. But we were saved."

"Yes, we were saved. Thank G.o.d--thank G.o.d!"

"That was my first cry, Bertie, when I felt that I was safe--that we both had been saved: Thank G.o.d! It seemed as if a miracle had been done to save us."

"So it was--a miracle."

"I spent the night praying that you might be kept away from me, Bertie--away for ever and ever. I felt that I was miserably weak; I felt that I could not trust myself; but now that you are here beside me again I feel strong. Oh, Bertie, we know ourselves better now than we did a week ago--is it only a week ago? It seems months--years--a lifetime!"

"Yes, I think that we know each other better now, Ella. That night aboard the yacht all the history of the past six months seemed to come before me. I saw what a wretch I had been, and I was overwhelmed with self-contempt."

"It was all my fault, dear Bertie. I was foolish--vain--a mere woman!

Do not say that I did not take pride in what I called, in my secret moments, my conquest. Oh, Bertie! I had sunk into the depths. And then that letter! But we were saved, and I feel that we have been saved forevermore. I feel strong by your side now. And you, I know, feel strong, Bertie?"

"I have awakened from my dream, Ella. You called her your good angel too. Surely it was my good angel that sent me to her that evening!"

Ella was staring at him. He said that he knew everything. It appeared that she was the one who was not in the fortunate position of knowing all.

She stared.

"Phyllis Ayrton--you were with her?"

"For half an hour. She was unconscious of the effect her words had upon me,--the words of another woman,--leading me back to the side of those who have gone forever. I listened to her, and then it was that I awoke.

She did not know. How could she tell that the light of heaven was breaking in upon a soul that was on the brink of h.e.l.l? She saved me."

"She told me nothing of that." There was a curious eagerness in her voice. "She told me nothing. Oh, how could she tell me anything? She knew nothing of it herself. She looked on you as an ordinary visitor.

She told you that I fled to her. Oh, Bertie, Bertie! those hours that I pa.s.sed--the terrible conflict. But when I felt her arms about me I knew that I was safe. Then Stephen entered. I thought that we were lost--you and I; that he had returned to find you waiting. I don't know if he had a suspicion. At any rate we were saved, and by her--dear Phyllis. Oh, will she ever know, I wonder, what it is to be a woman? Bertie, she is my dearest friend--I told you so. I thought of her and you--long ago.

Oh, why should you not think of her now that you have awakened and are capable of thought--the thought of a sane man?"

He sat with an elbow resting on the front of the opera box, his head upon his hand. He was not looking at her, but beyond her. He seemed to be lost in thought.

Was he considering that curious doctrine which she had propounded, that if a man really loves a woman he will marry her dearest friend? He made no reply to her. The point required a good deal of thought, apparently.

"You hear me, Bertie--dear Bertie?" she said.

He only nodded.

She remembered that, upon a previous occasion, when she had made the same suggestion to him, he had put it aside as unworthy of comment--unworthy of a moment's thought. How could it be possible for him, loving her as he did, to admit the possibility of another's attractiveness in his eyes? The idea had seemed ludicrous to him.

But now he made no such protest. He seemed to consider her suggestion and to think it--well, worthy of consideration; and this should have been very pleasing to her; for did it not mean that she had gained her point?

"You will think over it, Bertie?" she said. Her voice was now scarcely so full of eagerness as it had been before. Was that because she did not want to weary him by her persistence? Even the suggestion to a man that he should love a certain woman should, she knew, be made with tact.

"I have been thinking over it," he said at last; but only after a long pause.

"Oh, I am so glad!"

And she actually believed that she was glad.

"I thought about her aboard the yacht."

"Did you? I fancied that you would think of----But I am so glad!"

"I thought of her as my good angel. Those words which she said to me--"

"She has been your good angel, and I--"

"Ella, Ella, she has been our good angel--you said so."

"And don't you think that I meant it? Some women--she is one of them--are born to lead men upward; others----Ah, there, it is on the stage: _Carmen_, the enchantress, _Michaela_, the good angel. But I am so glad! She is coming to stay with us up the river; you must be with us too. You cannot possibly know her yet. But a week by her side--you will, I know, come to perceive what she is--the sweetest--the most perfect!"

Still he made no reply. He was looking earnestly at the conductor, who was pulling his musicians together for the second act.

"You will come to us, Bertie?" she whispered.

He shook his head.

"I dare not promise," said he. "I feel just now like a man who is still dazed, on being suddenly awakened. I have not yet begun to see things as they are. I am not sure of myself. I will let you know later on."

Then the conductor tapped his desk, and those of the audience who had left their places returned. Stephen Linton slipped into his chair; his wife took up her lorgnette as the first jingle of the tambourines was heard, and the curtain rose upon the picturesque tawdriness of the company a.s.sembled at the _Senor Lois Pastia's_ place of entertainment.

Ella gave all her attention to the opera--to that tragedy of the weakness of the flesh, albeit the spirit may be willing to listen to good. Alas! that the flesh should be so full of color and charm and seduction, while the spirit is pale, colorless, and set to music in a minor key!

_Carmen_ flashed about the stage under the brilliant lights, looking like a lovely purple b.u.t.terfly--a lovely purple oriole endowed with the double glory of plumage and song, and men whose hearts beat in unison with the heart-beats of that sensuous music through which she expressed herself, loved her; watched her with ravished eyes; heard her with ravished ears--yes, as men love such women; until the senses recover from the intoxication of her eyes and her limbs and her voice. And in the third act the sweet _Michaela_ came on with her song of the delight of purity, and peace, and home. She sang it charmingly, everyone allowed, and hoped that _Carmen_ would sing as well in the last act as she had sung in the others.

Ella Linton kept her eyes fixed upon the stage to the very end of all.