"I think so," she said hesitatingly. "Clara says it will be very amusing. And you must remember how much I enjoyed 'Faust' and 'Hamlet.'"

Errington smiled. "You'll find the Brilliant performance very different to either," he said amusedly. "You don't know what a burlesque is like!"

"Then I must be instructed," replied Thelma, smiling also, "I need to learn many things. I am very ignorant!"

"Ignorant!" and he swept aside with a caressing touch the cl.u.s.tering hair from her broad, n.o.ble brow. "My darling, you possess the greatest wisdom--the wisdom of innocence. I would not change it for all the learning of the sagest philosophers!"

"You really mean that?" she asked half timidly.

"I really mean that!" he answered fondly. "Little sceptic! As if I would ever say anything to you that I did _not_ mean! I shall be glad when we're out of London and back at the Manor--then I shall have you all to myself again--for a time, at least."

She raised her eyes full of sudden joy,--all traces of her former depression had disappeared.

"And _I_ shall have _you_!" she said gladly. "And we shall not disappoint Lady Winsleigh to-night, Philip--I am not tired--and I shall be pleased to go to the theatre."

"All right!" responded Philip cheerfully. "So let it be! Only I don't believe you'll like the piece,--though it certainly won't make you cry.

Yet I doubt if it will make you laugh, either. However, it will be a new experience for you."

And a new experience it decidedly was,--an experience, too, which brought some strange and perplexing results to Thelma of which she never dreamed.

She went to the Brilliant, accompanied by Lady Winsleigh and her husband,--Neville, the secretary, making the fourth in their box; and during the first and second scene of the performance the stage effects were so pretty and the dancing so graceful that she nearly forgot the bewildered astonishment she had at first felt at the extreme scantiness of apparel worn by the ladies of the ballet. They represented birds, bees, b.u.t.terflies, and the other winged denizens of the forest-world,--and the _tout-ensemble_ was so fairy-like and brilliant with swift movement, light, and color that the eye was too dazzled and confused to note objectionable details. But in the third scene, when a plump, athletic young woman leaped on the stage in the guise of a humming-bird, with a feather tunic so short that it was a mere waist-belt of extra width,--a flesh-colored bodice about three inches high, and a pair of blue wings attached to her fat shoulders, Thelma started and half rose from her seat in dismay, while a hot tide of color crimsoned her cheeks. She looked nervously at her husband.

"I do not think this is pleasant to see," she said in a low tone. "Would it not be best to go away? I--I think I would rather be at home."

Lady Winsleigh heard and smiled,--a little mocking smile.

"Don't be silly, child!" she said. "If you leave the theatre just now you'll have every one staring at you. That woman's an immense favorite--she is the success of the piece. She's got more diamonds than either you or I."

Thelma regarded her friend with a sort of grave wonder,--but said nothing in reply. If Lady Winsleigh liked the performance and wished to remain, why--then politeness demanded that Thelma should not interfere with her pleasure by taking an abrupt leave. So she resumed her seat, but withdrew herself far behind the curtain of the box, in a corner where the stage was almost invisible to her eyes. Her husband bent over her and whispered--

"I'll take you home if you wish it, dear! only say the word."

She shook her head.

"Clara enjoys it!" she answered somewhat plaintively. "We must stay."

Philip was about to address Lady Winsleigh on the subject, when suddenly Neville touched him on the arm.

"Can I speak to you alone for a moment, Sir Philip?" he said in a strange, hoa.r.s.e whisper. "Outside the box--away from the ladies--a matter of importance!"

He looked as if he were about to faint. He gasped rather than spoke these words; his face was white as death, and his eyes had a confused and bewildered stare.

"Certainly!" answered Philip promptly, though not without an accent of surprise,--and, excusing their absence briefly to his wife and Lady Winsleigh, they left the box together. Meanwhile the well-fed "Humming-Bird" was capering extravagantly before the footlights, pointing her toe in the delighted face of the stalls and singing in a in a loud, coa.r.s.e voice the following refined ditty--

"Oh my ducky, oh my darling, oh my duck, duck, duck!

If you love me you must have a little pluck, pluck, pluck!

Come and put your arms around me, kiss me once, twice, thrice, For kissing may be naughty, but, by Jingo! it is nice!

Once, twice, thrice!

Nice, nice, nice!

Bliss, bliss, bliss!

Kiss, kiss, kiss!

Kissing may be naughty, but it's nice!"

There were several verses in this graceful poem, and each one was hailed with enthusiastic applause. The "Humming-Bird" was triumphant, and when her song was concluded she executed a startling _pas-seul_ full of quaint and astonishing surprises, reaching her superbest climax, when she backed off the stage on one portly leg,--kicking the other in regular time to the orchestra. Lady Winsleigh laughed, and leaning towards Thelma, who still sat in her retired corner, said with a show of kindness--

"You dear little goose! You must get accustomed to this kind of thing--it takes with the men immensely. Why, even your wonderful Philip has gone down behind the scenes with Neville--you may be sure of that!"

The startled, pitiful astonishment in the girl's face might have touched a less callous heart than Lady Winsleigh's,--but her ladyship was prepared for it and only smiled.

"Gone behind the scenes! To see that dreadful woman!" exclaimed Thelma in a low pained tone. "Oh no, Clara! He would not do such a thing.

Impossible!"

"Well, my dear, then where is he? He has been gone quite ten minutes.

Look at the stalls--all the men are out of them! I tell you Violet Vere draws everybody--of the male s.e.x after her! At the end of all her 'scenes' she has a regular reception--for men only--of course! Ladies not admitted!" And Clara Winsleigh laughed. "Don't look so shocked for heaven's sake, Thelma,--you don't want your husband to be a regular nincomp.o.o.p! He must have his amus.e.m.e.nts as well as other people. I believe you want him to be like a baby, tied to your ap.r.o.n-string!

You'll find that an awful mistake,--he'll get tired to death of you, sweet little Griselda though you are!"

Thelma's face grew very pale, and her hand closed more tightly on the fan she held.

"You have said that so very, very often lately, Clara!" she murmured.

"You seem so sure that he will get tired--that all men get tired. I do not think you know Philip--he is not like any other person I have ever met. And why should he go behind the scenes to such a person as Violet Vere--"

At that moment the box-door opened with a sharp click, and Errington entered alone. He looked disturbed and anxious.

"Neville is not well," he said abruptly, addressing his wife. "I've sent him home. He wouldn't have been able to sit this thing out." And he glanced half angrily towards the stage--the curtain had just gone up again and displayed the wondrous Violet Vere still in her "humming-bird"

character, swinging on the branch of a tree and (after the example of all humming-birds) smoking a cigar with brazen-faced tranquillity.

"I am sorry he is ill," said Thelma gently. "That is why you were so long away?"

"Was I long?" returned Philip somewhat absently. "I didn't know it. I went to ask a question behind the scenes."

Lady Winsleigh coughed and glanced at Thelma, whose eyes dropped instantly.

"I suppose you saw Violet Vere?" asked Clara.

"Yes, I saw her," he replied briefly. He seemed irritable and vexed--moreover, decidedly impatient. Presently he said--

"Lady Winsleigh, would you mind very much if we left this place and went home? I'm rather anxious about Neville--he's had a shock. Thelma doesn't care a bit about this piece, I know, and if you are not very much absorbed--"

Lady Winsleigh rose instantly, with her usual ready grace.

"My dear Sir Philip!" she said sweetly. "As if I would not, do anything to oblige you! Let us go by all means! These burlesques _are_ extremely fatiguing!"

He seemed relieved by her acquiescence--and smiled that rare sweet smile of his, which had once played such havoc with her ladyship's sensitive feelings. They left the theatre, and were soon on their way home, though Thelma was rather silent during the drive. They dropped Lady Winsleigh at her own door, and after they had bidden her a cordial good night, and were going on again towards home, Philip, turning towards his wife, and catching sight of her face by the light of a street-lamp, was struck by her extreme paleness and weary look.

"You are very tired, my darling, I fear?" he inquired, tenderly encircling her with one arm. "Lean your head on my shoulder--so!"

She obeyed, and her hand trembled a little as he took and held it in his own warm, strong clasp.

"We shall soon be home!" he added cheerily. "And I think we must have no more theatre-going this season. The heat and noise and glare are too much for you."