Apparently to be present in the opera-house when _Bohême_ was going on was sufficient for Gladys, and constituted not missing a note, for she spent that small portion of the first act which still remained to be performed after their arrival in an absorbed examination of the occupants of the other boxes, and whispered communications as to the result of her investigations to Madge. The fall of the curtain had the effect of rendering these more audible. "Yes, absolutely everybody is here; so good of you, dear Mr. Home, to ask us to-night. Of course, it is the last night Melba sings, is it not? How wonderful, is she not? That long last note quite thrilled me. So sad, too, the last act, it always makes me cry! Oh! there is Madame Odintseff, dearest Madge, did you ever see such ropes of pearls--cables you might call them. Who is that she is talking to? I know her face quite well. That's her daughter, yes, the sandy-coloured thing, rather like a rabbit. They say she's engaged to Lord Hitchin, but I don't believe it. Dear Madge, is it not brilliant? You look so well, dear, to-night. If only Mr. Dundas could paint you as you are looking now! By the way, how is the portrait getting on?" Philip also had risen when the act ended, and was looking out over the house. Here he joined in. "Evelyn was absolutely jubilant when I saw him a few days ago," he said. "And though he is usually jubilant over the last thing, I saw he thought there was something extra-special about this. By-the-way, Madge, you are sitting to him to-morrow afternoon, are you not? I shall try to look in; my spate of work is over, I hope." "Oh! I'm afraid I have had to put it off," said she. "I couldn't manage it to-morrow." She fingered her fan nervously for a moment. "In fact, Philip," she said, "I am so dreadfully full of engagements for the next week or two that I don't see how I can squeeze in another sitting. I am so ashamed of myself, but I can't help it. I wish you would go down to Mr. Dundas' studio to-morrow and tell him so." Philip looked at her a moment in blank surprise. "Ah, but you can't do that," he said; "a painter isn't like a tailor to whom you say, 'I am not coming to try on; send it home as it is.'" Madge lost her head a little; the burden of the hours of this day pressed heavily on her. "Ah! but that is what I want him to do," she cried. "It is a wonderful portrait; he said so himself. There is a little background that must be put in, but I needn't be there for that." Gladys Ellington had turned her attention again to the house, and, with her opera-glasses glued to her eyes, was spying and observing in all directions. Philip cast one glance at her, and rightly considered himself alone with Madge, for the other was blind and deaf to them. "Madge, is anything wrong?" he asked gently. "No, nothing is wrong," she said, recovering herself a little. "But I ask you to do as I say. I can't bear sitting for that portrait any more, and Mr. Dundas--he bores me."