He managed to obey me; Kate smiled approvingly, and we entered the cab which was waiting for us at the door. Cornelius took me to a house which had not long been open, but where both performances and actors were said to be good. We occupied the front seats of a centre box, and commanded a full view of the stage and audience. I was young, unaccustomed to pleasure, and easily amused. I felt interested in the play, and when the second act was over, I turned to Cornelius and said-- "Do you think Lady Ada will marry her cousin?" "I suppose so," he replied, without looking at me. "Oh! Cornelius, I hope not; he is not the right one, you know." "Is he not?" "Oh! dear, no; what can you have been thinking of?" "That there never was a more insolent fellow than that man in the pit," replied Cornelius, who looked much irritated, "for the whole of the last act he has kept his opera-glass fully bent upon you." "Then his neck must ache by this." "How coolly you take it!" "What am I to do?" "Nothing, of course; but surely you will grant that sort of admiration is very insolent." "How do I know it is admiration? He may be thinking 'poor girl, what a pity she is so shockingly dressed, or has such a bad figure, or has not better features!'" "Do you think a man loses a whole act to find out that a girl is plain?" sceptically asked Cornelius. I did not answer. He very unreasonably construed this into being pleased with being looked at. Wishing to get rid of the subject, I asked him to change places with me; he accepted at once, and took my seat, whilst I sat partly behind him. At first this produced nothing; the gentleman with the opera-glass really seemed to enjoy the face of Cornelius quite as much as mine. "He has not found it out yet," I said. But even as I spoke, the individual I alluded to rose and left the pit. "Oh! he has found it out, has he?" ironically inquired Cornelius. The third act was beginning when the door of our box opened, and a foreign-looking man, dark and handsome, entered. I felt sure it was Armari, it was; but it also was the gentleman with the opera-glass, a fact that gave rather an odd character to the greeting of Cornelius. Most foreigners are self-possessed. Signor Armari was pre-eminently so. He looked at me as if he knew not the use of the opera-glass, which he still held, and even had the assurance to offer it to me. I did not know Italian sufficiently to understand the whole of his discourse; but it seemed to me that its chief purport was an enthusiastic, intense admiration of the golden hair, blue eyes, and dazzling complexions of English ladies--a theme that, by no means, appeared to delight Cornelius. Signor Armari remained with us until the play was over. We then parted from him, and never once mentioned his name, until we reached the Grove.