But that look of Lord Robert's! It drove me to distraction, and every instinct to be wicked and attractive that I possess came up in me. I leaned over to Lady Ver, so that I must be close to him, and I said little things to her, never one word to him; but I moved my seat, making it certain the corner of his eye must catch sight of me, and I allowed my shoulders to undulate the faintest bit to that Spanish music. Oh, I can dance as Carmen, too! Mrs. Carruthers had me taught every time we went to Paris. She loved to see it herself. I could hear Christopher breathing very quickly. "My God!" he whispered, "a man would go to hell for you." Lord Robert got up abruptly and went out of the box. Then it was as if Don Jose's dagger plunged into my heart, not Carmen's. That sounds high-flown, but I mean it--a sudden, sick, cold sensation, as if everything was numb. Lady Ver turned round pettishly to Christopher. "What on earth is the matter with Robert?" she said. "There is a Persian proverb which asserts a devil slips in between two winds," said Christopher. "Perhaps that is what has happened in this box to-night." Lady Ver laughed harshly, and I sat there still as death. And all the time the music and the movement on the stage went on. I am glad she is murdered in the end--glad! Only I would like to have seen the blood gush out. I am fierce--fierce--sometimes. 300 PARK STREET, Friday morning, _November 25th._ I know just the meaning of dust and ashes, for that is what I felt I had had for breakfast this morning, the day after "Carmen." Lady Ver had given orders she was not to be disturbed, so I did not go near her, and crept down to the dining-room, quite forgetting the master of the house had arrived. There he was, a strange, tall, lean man with fair hair, and sad, cross, brown eyes, and a nose inclined to pink at the tip--a look of indigestion about him, I feel sure. He was sitting in front of a _Daily Telegraph_ propped up on the teapot, and some cold, untasted sole on his plate. I came forward. He looked very surprised. "I--I'm Evangeline Travers," I announced. He said "How d'you do?" awkwardly. One could see without a notion what that meant. "I'm staying here," I continued. "Did you not know?" "Then won't you have some breakfast? Beastly cold, I fear," politeness forced him to utter. "No, Ianthe never writes to me. I had not heard any news for a fortnight, and I have not seen her yet." Manners have been drummed into me from early youth, so I said, politely, "You only arrived from Paris late last night, did you not?" "I got in about seven o'clock, I think," he replied. "We had to leave so early--we were going to the opera," I said. "A Wagner that begins at unearthly hours, I suppose?" he murmured, absently. "No, it was 'Carmen,' but we dined first with my--my--guardian, Mr. Carruthers." "Oh!"