Arthur was nettled. “I shall do nothing of the kind,” said he. “I shall accept it.” “As you like,” laughed the other, good-naturedly. “I shall accept, too, as far as that goes; but you needn’t go. They can put it in the newspaper that I was there, if they like.” Arthur opened his eyes; what sort of young nobleman, then, was his friend, disguised as a clerk upon a salary? “Perhaps you object to my calling on the Livingstones?” said he, with biting sarcasm. “Not at all--the Livingstones are all right,” said unconscious Charlie. “But don’t go to-night; come to the opera with me. In fact, you can’t make calls in the evening any more, you know.” “What opera is it?” “I don’t know,” said Charlie, serenely. “What does it matter?” Arthur had nothing to reply to this; and the opera turned out to be “Linda.” But Charlie was right; the audience proved more interesting. Here was a dress parade of all that was most fashionable in New York; for it was a great night, the first of the season, and everyone was anxious to put herself _en évidence_. Townley was out of his seat three quarters of the time; and Arthur paid little attention to what was going on on the stage. The wicked marquis came, saw, and sought to conquer; the sentimental young heroine sighed and suffered, repelled both the marquis and his diamonds, and fled from the wilds of Chamounix to the seclusion and safety of Paris; and the jewelled ladies in the boxes (familiar with this tale) gave it now and then their perfunctory attention, recognizing that all this drama was being well and properly done, the correct thing, according to the conventions of the stage. Directly opposite him, in one of the grand-tier boxes, were three women who attracted his eyes unwittingly. Two of them were young, and both were beautiful; one, with heavy black hair and fair young shoulders sitting quietly; the other not quite so pretty, but with an indescribable air of complete fashion, a blonde with the bust of a Hebe, talking with animation to quite a little group of male figures, dimly visible in the back of the box; and the third a woman of almost middle age, with the figure of a Titian Venus and hair of an indescribable ashen yellow. Surely he knew that face? “Who is that in the box opposite--the middle one, I mean, with the two beauties?” Charlie lifted his opera-glass, and then as quickly dropped it. “She would thank you,” he said, “for your two beauties. She is the only married woman of her set who isn’t afraid to have pretty young girls about her. That’s Mrs. Gower, and she’s looking at you, too.” Arthur looked up and met her eye; she made a very slight but unmistakable inclination of her head, and Arthur bowed. “You’re in luck, young’un,” said Townley. “Now you’ve got to go and speak to her.” “Have I?” said Arthur. “I know her very slightly.”