"Oh, not yet," she said quickly. "I would not miss seeing the play through for anything!" "You have seen it often enough before," objects Sydney. "But if you are determined to stay I will go alone, if Lord Valentine will put me into the carriage." "Don't go yet," says Lord Valentine, turning his eyes a moment from the stage to glance at his sister-in-law a trifle impatiently. "At least wait until Ernscliffe comes." "He does not appear to be coming at all. I will not wait for him," Sydney answers, and the look of discontent deepens into downright vexation. At that moment the box door opens and a gentleman comes up behind her chair. Georgina turns quickly. "Ah, Captain Ernscliffe, you are just in time," she says. "Here is Sydney trying to persuade us to go home before the play is half over. Perhaps you can induce her to wait." Sydney looks up to him and a tender smile curves her crimson lips. "You are late," she murmurs. "I was detained," he answers, carelessly. "How are you enjoying the performance of the great actress?" Her lip curls scornfully. "Not at all. I am tired of the whole sickening thing. Will you take me home?" "Is the balcony scene over yet?" he asks. "Oh, no," Lady Valentine answers; "only the first act." "Do you really want to go, Sydney?" he asks. "I really want to go," she answers, rising and drawing her opera cloak about her white shoulders. He gives her his arm in silence, and leads her away, puts her into the carriage, and they are whirled rapidly homeward; but when he sees her safely inside Lord Valentine's handsome house he turns to go back. "You will not leave me?" Sydney says, pleadingly, and laying her white, jeweled hand on his black coat sleeve. "I wish to see the play out," he answers, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "I assure you it is not worth seeing. The acting is merely mediocre. Madame De Lisle has been greatly over-rated," she urges, with a tone of anxiety in her voice, as she looks down, almost afraid that he will detect the falsehood she is telling in her eager face. "You make me more curious than ever," he answers, lightly. "I must certainly see her and judge for myself. Perhaps the wonderful beauty over which men rave so much has blinded the judgment of the critics. _Au revoir!_" He frees himself from her clasp gently but firmly, and runs down the steps. Sydney stands as he has left her, the rich cloak falling from her shoulders, her hands clasped before her, a tearless misery looking forth from her dark eyes. "I have lied to him and gained nothing by it," she murmurs, in a passionate undertone. "He will go back there, he will see that terrible resemblance that shocked us all, and he will be reminded of the one whom I wish him to forget. Oh, it is a dreadful coincidence! The same name, the same face, the same voice! If we had lost her in any way save by death, I could have sworn that it was Queenie herself that I saw to-night dancing on the stage at _Lady Capulet's_ ball."