The girl turned. The glory of her warm eyes brushed Stainton's face and passed it. "I am Miss Stannard," she said. "It is good of you to join us. Do sit down, Mr. Stainton." Stainton sat down. He sat down directly behind her, and at last, politely unencouraging though she at first managed to remain, he succeeded in gaining some sort of conversational opening. What did he say there, for the early ten minutes of their talk? He was unable at any later date to recall one word of it. Everything, he was sure, that was clumsy. As a matter of fact, his own speech was probably by no means so uncouth as his torturing fancy declared it, hers by no means so brilliant as his memory, which retained no souvenirs, insisted. More likely than not, their talk fulfilled the requirements of convention. Convention requires the commonplace. Nobody paid any but sporadic attention to the opera. To the left of the girl and Stainton, Mrs. Newberry and her husband, a Dido matched to a Don Juan, exchanged low monosyllables with each other and darting exchanges of talk, like rallies at badminton, with Holt. Sometimes they were ill-mannered enough to converse in whispers, near Stainton's shoulder, but mostly Mrs. Newberry was laboriously conventional, out of a constant fear of being adjudged plebeian, and now and again, to Stainton's huge disgust, she would lean to confer a word on her niece and her niece's companion. "I hope you care for opera," she said to Stainton in one of these sallies. "I hope to," replied the miner, guardedly. "Though of course," pursued Mrs. Newberry, "this is rather an off evening. The cast led us to expect so much, but they all seem to be in such poor voice." Stainton made a civil noise. "Apart from the music," his hostess continued, "I dare say that the stage doesn't appeal to you." "I have had very little chance to know it," said Stainton, "but I am fond of it." "Indeed?" Mrs. Newberry's tone indicated that she was mildly interested in meeting a tamed adventurer. "But I should suppose that it would all seem so false to you. It must seem false, I should think, to anyone that has known so much of--of Real Life, you know; and dear Mr. Holt has given us _such_ descriptions of your romantic career." Stainton's disavowal of this apparent praise of his career was earnest, but not convincing. "My life has seemed dull to me," he said, with a deadly glance at dear Mr. Holt, grinning in the background. Holt tried to change the subject. "At all events, this is a romantic episode for you, isn't it?" he asked. "What do you mean?" snapped Stainton. "Oh," Holt hurried to explain, "all this." He indicated the audience with the sweep of a plump hand. "It is new," granted Stainton. Holt edged his chair forward. "Of course it is, and whatever's new's romantic. That's all romance is, isn't it, Miss Muriel?" The girl had been listening to the music, her dark eyes, veiled by their long lashes, fixed on nothing. "Is it?" she enquired.