Lady Winsleigh rose instantly, with her usual ready grace.
"My dear Sir Philip!" she said sweetly. "As if I would not, do anything to oblige you! Let us go by all means! These burlesques are extremely fatiguing!"
He seemed relieved by her acquiescence--and smiled that rare sweet smile of his, which had once played such havoc with her ladyship's sensitive feelings. They left the theatre, and were soon on their way home, though Thelma was rather silent during the drive. They dropped Lady Winsleigh at her own door, and after they had bidden her a cordial good night, and were going on again towards home, Philip, turning towards his wife, and catching sight of her face by the light of a street-lamp, was struck by her extreme paleness and weary look.
"You are very tired, my darling, I fear?" he inquired, tenderly encircling her with one arm. "Lean your head on my shoulder--so!"
She obeyed, and her hand trembled a little as he took and held it in his own warm, strong clasp.
"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. And that night Philip wondered why his sweet wife talked so plaintively in her sleep,--though he smiled as he listened to the drift of those dove-like murmurings.