As time, and considerable time, elapsed, he became even miserable. Mr. Phoebus never moved, and Mrs. Campian frequently conversed with him. More than one visitor had in the interval paid their respects to the lady, but Mr. Phoebus never moved. They did not stay, perhaps because Mr. Phoebus never moved. Lothair never liked that fellow from the first. Sympathy and antipathy share our being as day and darkness share our lives. Lothair had felt an antipathy for Mr. Phoebus the moment he saw him. He had arrived at Belmont yesterday before Lothair, and he had outstayed him. These might be Arian principles, but they were not the principles of good-breeding. Lothair determined to go home, and never to come to the opera again. He opened the door of his box with firmness, and slammed it with courage; he had quite lost his shyness, was indeed ready to run a muck with any one who crossed him. The slamming of the door summoned a scudding attendant from a distant post, who with breathless devotion inquired whether Lothair wanted any thing. “Yes, I want you to show me the way to Mrs. Campian’s box.” “Tier above, No. 22,” said the box-keeper. “Ay, ay; but conduct me to it,” said Lothair, and he presented the man with an overpowering honorarium. “Certainly, my lord,” said the attendant. “He knows me,” thought Lothair; but it was not so. When the British nation is at once grateful and enthusiastic, they always call you “my lord.” But in his progress, to “No. 22, tier above,” all his valor evaporated, and when the box-door was opened he felt very much like a convict on the verge of execution; he changed color, his legs tottered, his heart beat, and he made his bow with a confused vision. The serenity of Theodora somewhat reassured him, and he seated himself, and even saluted Mr. Phoebus. The conversation was vapid and conventional—remarks about the opera and its performers—even the heat of the weather was mentioned. Lothair had come, and he had nothing to say. Mrs. Campian seemed much interested in the performance; so, if he had had any thing to say, there was no opportunity of expressing it. She had not appeared to be so engrossed with the music before his arrival. In the mean time that Phoebus would not move; a quarter of an hour elapsed, and that Phoebus would not move. Lothair could not stand it any longer; he rose and bowed. “Are you going?” said Theodora. “Colonel Campian will be here in a moment; he will be quite grieved not to see you.” But Lothair was inflexible. “Perhaps,” she added, “we may see you to-morrow night?” “Never,” said Lothair to himself, as he clinched his teeth; “my visit to Belmont was my first and my last. The dream is over.”