“I burned some of your letters the other day,” said Thornton cynically. “That was wise. Suppose we go in. The act must be about commencing.” The curtain was already up. Major Clavering was scanning the house drearily through a pair of opera glasses. Clytie was looking at the stage and thinking of her husband, wishing he would come in. When the door behind opened she turned round, and with an eye trained to catch fleeting expression, noticed a look upon Thornton's face,--the after-light, as it were, of a sneer, before the features had time to reset,--that she had never observed there before. The change from this to his usual gay smile was so rapid that she thought she had been mistaken, and attributed it to an illusion produced by the shadow at the back of the box. But the impression of it remained and it was unpleasant. During the next _entr'acte_ the men went out, leaving Clytie and Mrs. Clavering alone together. Either through the mere social desire to please or through a feeling of compassion proceeding from conscious superiority, the elder woman sought to make an agreeable impression upon the young wife. But Clytie had wrapped herself up in a strange veil of reserve and her attitude was unpropitiatory. Mrs. Clavering's falsetto voice struck upon her nerves, the confident air of patronage irritated her. She longed to be away from the heavy, acrid atmosphere, the artificiality of the opera, the society of Mrs. Clavering. She felt self-conscious, was angry with herself. She had the keen feminine sense of a false position and longed for extrication. She was glad when her husband and Major Clavering returned. “I have been telling Mrs. Hammerdyke about old times in Cairo, and singing your praises,” said Mrs. Clavering. “Are you not grateful to me?” “I am flattered,” said Thornton somewhat ironically. “That is always the way to make a man grateful.” “It is the same with us. I don't suppose there is much difference in that respect between men and women,” said Clytie, for the sake of saying something. “I am not so sure of that,” replied Mrs. Clavering; “women can generally sift the grain from the chaff--only, poor things, they too often take the chaff by preference.” “I hope you are not alluding to me, my dear,” said the major, who was given to saying stupid things by way of showing that he followed the thread of his wife's conversation. Thornton chimed in with his deep laugh. “That is one for you, Clavering. Perhaps one for me too. Anyhow, the curtain is going up and that saves us. Make room for me by you, Clytie, and tell me about what's going on.” He edged in his chair between Clytie and Mrs. Clavering. The major lounged behind, with his hands in his pockets, very much bored. He was hoping to escape soon. “Are you enjoying it?” whispered Thornton to Clytie. “Moderately. It is a dull opera. And it is so unbearably hot.” “It is not entrancingly interesting. Would you like to clear out after this act? I should.”