"
Leo Ulford looked unusually grave, even thoughtful, as if he were
pondering over some serious question. He kept his blue eyes fixed upon
Lady Holme. At last he said, in a voice much lower than usual:
"Poor chap!"
"Who's a poor chap?"
Leo jerked his head towards the door.
"Your father? Why?"
"Why--at his age!"
The last words were full of boyish contempt.
"I don't understand."
"Yes, you do. To be like that at his age. What's the good? As if--" He
smiled slowly at her. "I'm glad I'm young," he said.
"I'm glad you're young too," she answered. "But you're quite wrong about
Sir Donald."
She let her eyes rest on his. He shook his head.
"No, I'm not. I guessed it that day at the Carlton. All through lunch he
looked at you."
"But what has all this to do with Miss Schley's performance?"
"Because she's something like you, but low down, where you'd never go."
He drew his chair a little closer to hers.
"Would you?" he added, almost in a whisper.
Mr. Laycock, who was in raptures over Miss Schley's performance, had got
up to speak to Fritz, but found the latter being steadily hypnotised by
Mrs. Leo's trumpet, which went up towards his mouth whenever he opened
it. He bellowed distracted nothings but could not make her hear,
obtaining no more fortunate result than a persistent flutter of pink
eyelids, and a shrill, reiterated "The what? The what?"
A sharp tap came presently on the box door, and Mrs.
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