Gilbert walked away without replying, and Henry sat back in his seat and watched the boxes so that he might see Lady Cecily the moment she entered. His stall was in the last row, against the first row of the pit, and the girls who had applauded Miss Terry and Sir Charles Wyndham were still identifying the fashionable people. "I tell you it _is_ 'im," said the more assertive of the two. "I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_ the time that feller ... wot's 'is name ... the one that 'anged all 'is wives in the coal-cellar ... you know!..." "I know," the other girl replied. "'Orrible case, I call it!" "Well, 'e defended 'im. I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_ myself. Very 'andsome man, eh? They do say!..." Lady Cecily came into her box, followed by her husband, and Henry looked steadily up at her in the hope that she would see him, but she did not glance in his direction. He could see that she had found Gilbert in the audience, but Gilbert was not looking at her. An odd sensation of jealousy ran through him. He suddenly resented her familiarity with Gilbert. He remembered that she had called him by his Christian name, that she distinguished between him and other men by calling him by his proper name, and not by some fanciful perversion of it. If only she would call _him_ by his Christian name!... She was leaning on the edge of the box, and looking about the auditorium. "That's Lydy Cecily Jyne!" he heard the assertive girl behind him saying. "'Oo?'" "Lydy Cecily Jyne. _You_ know!" Her husband leant back in his seat, stifling a yawn as he did so, and Henry saw that he was a faded, insignificant-looking man whose head sloped so sharply that it seemed to be galloping away from his forehead; but he did not pay much attention to him. His eyes were fixed on Lady Cecily. "A bit 'ot, she is," the girl behind him was saying. "Well, I mean to say!..." But what she meant to say, Henry neither knew nor cared. The lights in the theatre were lowered, leaving only the bright, warm glow of the footlights on the heavy curtain. He could see Lady Cecily's face still golden and glowing even in the darkness. "My dear," said the girl behind him, "the things I've 'eard ... well, they'd fill a book!" Then the curtain went up and the play began. He saw her leaning forward eagerly to watch the stage, and presently he heard her laughing at some piece of wit in the play: a clear, joyful laugh; and as she laughed, she turned for a few moments and gazed into the darkened theatre. Her beautiful eyes seemed to him to be shining stars, and he imagined that she was looking straight at him. He smiled at her, and then jeered at himself. "Of course, she can't see me," he said. He tried to interest himself in the traffic of the stage, but his thoughts continually wandered to the woman in the box above him. "She's the loveliest woman I've ever seen," he said to himself. THE FIFTH CHAPTER 1