"We shall soon be home!" he added cheerily. "And I think we must have no
more theatre-going this season. The heat and noise and glare are too
much for you."
"Philip," said Thelma suddenly. "Did you really go behind the scenes
to-night?"
"Yes, I did," he answered readily. "I was obliged to go on a matter of
business--a very disagreeable and unpleasant matter too."
"And what was it?" she asked timidly, yet hopefully.
"My pet, I can't tell you! I wish I could! It's a secret I'm bound not
to betray--a secret which involves the name of another person who'd be
wretched if I were to mention it to you. There,--don't let us talk about
it any more!"
"Very well, Philip," said Thelma resignedly,--but though she smiled, a
sudden presentiment of evil depressed her. The figure of the vulgar,
half-clothed, painted creature known as Violet Vere rose up mockingly
before her eyes,--and the half-scornful, half-jesting words of Lady
Winsleigh rang persistently in her ears.
On reaching home, Philip went straight to Neville's little study and
remained with him in earnest conversation for a long time--while Thelma
went to bed, and lay restless among her pillows, puzzling her brain with
strange forebodings and new and perplexing ideas, till fatigue
overpowered her, and she fell asleep with a few tear-drops wet on her
lashes.
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