I wanted to embrace them both, and while the opening bars of another scene rose from the orchestra I almost did embrace Dawling, whose first emotion on beholding me had visibly and ever so oddly been a consciousness of guilt.

I had caught him somehow in the act, though that was as yet all I knew; but by the time we sank noiselessly into our chairs again--for the music was supreme, Wagner passed first--my demonstration ought pretty well to have given him the limit of the criticism he had to fear.

I myself indeed, while the opera blazed, was only too afraid he might divine in our silent closeness the very moral of my optimism, which was simply the comfort I had gathered from seeing that if our companion's beauty lived again her vanity partook of its life.

I had hit on the right note--that was what eased me off: it drew all pain for the next half-hour from the sense of the deep darkness in which the stricken woman sat.

If the music, in that darkness, happily soared and swelled for her, it beat its wings in unison with those of a gratified passion.