On the grand-tier was Mrs. Besalul, on whom society had shut its door because she had omitted to close her own. In an adjoining box was Mrs. Smithwick, the bride of a month, fairer than that queen whose face was worth the world to kiss, and who the previous winter had written a novel of such impropriety that when it was published her mother forbade her to read it. There was Miss Pickett, a debutante, who possessed the disquieting ugliness of a monkey and who had announced that there was nothing so immoral as ennui. There was Mrs. Bouvery, who claimed connection with everyone whose name began with Van. Mrs. Hackensack, one of the few surviving Knickerbockers. The Coenties twins, known as Dry and Extra Mumm. And there were others less interesting. Mrs. Ponder, for instance, famous for her musicales, which no one could be bribed to attend. Mrs. Skolfield, who was so icy in her manner that a poet who had once ventured her way, had caught a cold in his head which lasted a week. Mrs. Nevers, mailed in diamonds; Mrs. Goodloe, mailed in pearls; and a senator’s wife in a bonnet.
The only empty box in the house was owned by Mr. Incoul, then abroad on his honeymoon.
And in and out through these boxes sauntered a contingent of men, well-groomed, white of glove, and flowered as to their buttonholes. Among them was Harry Tandem, who had inaugurated silver studs. Brewster, who had invented a new figure for the cotillion, and with him Harrison Felton, the maestro of that decadent dance. There was George Rerick, who stuttered to the débutantes as he had stuttered to their mothers before them. Furman Fellowes, who told fairy tales to impressionable young girls, and who would presently get drunk in Sixth Avenue. Jack Rodney, M.F.H., and Alphabet Jones, the novelist, in search of points.
As Eden entered the vestibule of her box the curtain had parted on the second act. A Miss Bolten and her mother whom she had invited had already arrived, and Arnswald, she noticed, went immediately forward to salute them; then returning, he assisted her with her wrap. In a moment the vestibule was invaded by Jones; and Eden, after a word or two to her guests, settled herself in the front of the box and promenaded her opera-glass about the house. The promenade completed, she lowered it to the stalls. Near the orchestra a woman sat gazing fixedly at her. There was nothing remarkable about the woman. She was as well dressed, as young, and as pretty as were the majority of those present; it was the singularity of her attitude that arrested Eden’s attention. But that attention she was not permitted to prolong. The adjoining box, the occupants of which she had not yet noticed, was tenanted by Mrs. Manhattan, who now claimed her recognition with some little feminine word of greeting. On one side of Mrs. Manhattan was an elderly man whom Eden did not remember to have seen before, and behind her stood Dugald Maule.
“Eden,” whispered Mrs. Manhattan, “I want you to know Mr. Maule’s uncle; he has been minister abroad you know;” and so saying, with a motion of her head, she designated the elderly man at her side. “He says,” she added, “that you are the most appetizing thing he has seen.”
At the brusqueness of the remark Eden started as from a sting. The old gentleman leaned forward.
“Don’t be annoyed, my dear,” he mumbled; “I was in love with your mother.”
Then with an amiable commonplace the old beau bowed and moved back.
Maule bowed also, and presently, taking advantage of a recitative, he left Mrs. Manhattan and entered Eden’s box. He seemed at home at once. He shook Mr. Usselex by the hand, saluted Miss Bolten and her mother, ignored Jones, and dislodging Arnswald, took his seat.
“The season promises well,” he whispered confidentially to Eden.
Jones, who had not accorded the slightest attention to Maule, was discoursing in an animated fashion with Miss Bolten. On the stage in a canvas forest a man stood, open-mouthed, raising and lowering his right arm at regular intervals; and next to her Eden caught the motion of Mrs. Manhattan’s fan.
“No,” she heard Jones say, “I have every reason to doubt that Shakespeare was the author of Hamlet. In the first place—”
“Ah!” murmured Miss Bolten. She did not appear particularly interested in Jones or in the man on the stage. She was occupied in scrutinizing the occupants of the different boxes. “And whom do you suspect?” she asked, her eyes foraging an opposite baignoire.
“Another man with the same name,” Jones answered, and laughed a little to himself.
Eden tapped him on the sleeve. “Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, Mrs. Usselex.”
“Look in the orchestra, in the third row, the aisle seat on the left.”
“Yes, Mrs. Usselex.”
“There is a woman looking up here. She has just turned her head. Do you see her?”
“That woman with the blonde hair?”
“Yes; do you know her?”
“No, I can’t say I know her. But I know who she is—”
“Who is she?”
“She has an apartment at the Ranleigh. Her name is Mrs. Feverill. She is a grass widow; rather fly, I fancy—”
“H’m;” said Eden, “I am sure I don’t know what you mean by ‘fly.’ There, it isn’t necessary to explain—” She turned her head—“Mr. Arnswald, would you mind getting me my cloak, there seems to be a draught.”
Arnswald, who had been loitering in the rear of the box, went back into the vestibule in search of the garment.
On the stage the tenor in green and gold was still gesticulating, open-mouthed as before, and presently there came a blare of trumpets, a shudder of brass, dominated by the cry of violins, and abruptly the curtain fell.
Arnswald advanced with the cloak, and Jones stood up. The latter
