"No, I am sitting by myself in the stalls," responded Mr. Quin with a smile.
"Then that is settled," said Mr. Satterthwaite with a sigh of relief.
His manner was almost comic, had there been anyone to observe it.
"You are very kind," said Mr. Quin.
"Not at all. It is a pleasure. I didn't know you were fond of music?"
"There are reasons why I am attracted to _Pagliacci_."
"Ah! of course," said Mr. Satterthwaite, nodding sapiently, though, if put to it, he would have found it hard to explain just why he had used that expression. "Of course, you would be."
They went back to the box at the first summons of the bell and, leaning over the front of it, they watched the people returning to the stalls.
"That's a beautiful head," observed Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly.
He indicated with his glasses a spot immediately beneath them in the stalls circle. A girl sat there whose face they could not see--only the pure gold of her hair that fitted with the closeness of a cap till it merged into the white neck.
"A Greek head," said Mr. Satterthwaite reverently. "Pure Greek." He sighed happily. "It's a remarkable thing when you come to think of it--how very few people have hair that _fits_ them."
"You are so observant," said Mr. Quin.
"I see things," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "I do see things. For instance, I picked out that head at once. We must have a look at her face sooner or later. But it won't match, I'm sure. That would be a chance in a thousand."
Almost as the words left his lips, the lights flickered and went down, the sharp rap of the conductor's baton was heard, and the opera began. A new tenor, said to be a second Caruso, was singing that night. He had been referred to by the newspapers as a Yugoslav, a Czech, an Albanian, a Magyar, and a Bulgarian, with a beautiful impartiality. He had given an extraordinary concert at the Albert Hall, a program of the folk songs of his native hills, with a specially tuned orchestra. They were in strange half-tones, and the would-be musical had pronounced them "too marvelous." Real musicians had reserved judgment, realizing that the ear had to be specially trained and attuned before any criticism was possible. It was quite a relief to some people to find this evening that Yoaschbim could sing in ordinary Italian with all the traditional sobs and quivers.
The curtain went down on the first act, and applause burst out vociferously. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin. He realized that the latter was waiting for him to pronounce judgment, and plumed himself a little. After all, he _knew_. As a critic he was well-nigh infallible.
Very slowly he nodded his head. "It is the real thing," he said.
"You think so?"
"As fine a voice as Caruso's. People will not recognize that it is so at first, for his technique is not yet perfect. There are ragged edges, a lack of certainty in the attack. But the voice is there--magnificent."
"I went to his concert at the Albert Hall," said Mr. Quin.
"Did you? I could not go."
"He made a wonderful hit with a shepherd's song."
"I read about it," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "The refrain ends each time with a high note--a kind of cry. A note midway between A and B flat. Very curious."
Yoaschbim had taken three calls, bowing and smiling. The lights went up and the people began to file out. Mr. Satterthwaite leaned over to watch the girl with the golden head. She rose, adjusted her scarf, and turned.
Mr. Satterthwaite caught his breath. There were, he knew, such faces in the world--faces that made history--
The girl moved to the gangway, her companion, a young man, beside her. And Mr. Satterthwaite noticed how every man in the vicinity looked--and continued to look covertly.
_Beauty!_ said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. _There is such a thing. Not charm, nor attraction, nor magnetism, nor any of the things we talk about so glibly--just sheer beauty. The shape of a face, the line of an eyebrow, the curve of a jaw._ He quoted softly under his breath: "_The face that launched a thousand ships._" And for the first time he realized the meaning of those words.
He glanced across at Mr. Quin, who was watching him in what seemed such perfect comprehension that Mr. Satterthwaite felt there was no need for words.
"I've always wondered," he said simply, "what such women were really like."
"You mean?"
"The Helens, the Cleopatras, the Mary Stuarts."
Mr. Quin nodded thoughtfully. "If we go out," he suggested, "we may--see."
They went out together, and their quest was successful. The pair they were in search of were seated on a lounge halfway up the staircase. For the first time, Mr. Satterthwaite noted the girl's companion, a dark young man, not handsome, but with a suggestion of restless fire about him. A face full of strange angles; jutting cheekbones, a forceful, slightly crooked jaw, deep-set eyes that were curiously light under the dark, overhanging brows.
_An interesting face_, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. _A real face. It means something._
The young man was leaning forward talking earnestly. The girl was listening. Neither of them belonged to Mr. Satterthwaite's world. He took them to be of the "Arty" class. The girl wore a rather shapeless garment of cheap green silk. Her shoes were of soiled white satin. The young man wore his evening clothes with an air of being uncomfortable in them.
The two men passed and repassed several times. The fourth time they did so the couple had been joined by a third--a fair young man with a suggestion of the clerk about him. With his coming a certain tension had set in. The newcomer was fidgeting with his tie and seemed ill at ease; the girl's beautiful face was turned gravely up toward him, and her companion was scowling furiously.
"The usual story," said Mr. Quin very softly, as they passed.
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite with a sigh. "It's inevitable, I suppose. The snarling of two dogs over a bone. It always has been, it always will be. And yet, one could wish for something different. Beauty--" He stopped. Beauty, to Mr. Satterthwaite, meant something very wonderful. He found it difficult to speak of it. He looked at Mr. Quin, who nodded his head gravely in understanding.
They went back to their seats for the second act.
At the close of the performance, Mr. Satterthwaite turned eagerly to his friend. "It is a wet night. My car is here. You must allow me to drive you--er--somewhere."
The last word was Mr. Satterthwaite's delicacy coming into play. "To drive you home" would, he felt, have savored of curiosity. Mr. Quin had always been singularly reticent. It was extraordinary how little Mr. Satterthwaite knew about him.
"But perhaps," continued the little man, "you have your own car waiting?"
"No," said Mr. Quin. "I have no car waiting."
"Then--"
But Mr. Quin shook his head. "You are most kind," he said, "but I prefer to go my own way. Besides," he said with a rather curious smile, "if anything should--happen, it will be for you to act. Good night, and thank you. Once again we have seen the drama together."
He had gone so quickly that Mr. Satterthwaite had no time to protest, but he was left with a faint uneasiness stirring in his mind. To what drama did Mr. Quin refer? _Pagliacci_ or another?
Masters, Mr. Satterthwaite's chauffeur, was in the habit of waiting in a side street. His master disliked the long delay while the cars drew up in turn before the opera house. Now, as on previous occasions, he walked rapidly round the corner and along the street toward where he knew he should find Masters awaiting him. Just in front of him were a girl and a man, and even as he recognized them, another man joined them.
It all broke out in a minute. A man's voice, angrily uplifted. Another man's voice in injured protest. And then the scuffle. Blows, angry breathing, more blows, the form of a policeman appearing majestically from nowhere--and in another minute Mr. Satterthwaite was beside the girl where she shrank back against the wall.
"Allow me," he said. "You must not stay here."
He took her by the arm and marshaled her swiftly down the street. Once she looked back.
"Oughtn't I--?" she began uncertainly.
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "It would be very unpleasant for you to be mixed up in it. You would probably be asked to go along to the police station with them. I am sure neither of your--friends would wish that."
He stopped. "This is my car. If you will allow me to do so, I shall have much pleasure in driving you home."
The girl looked at him searchingly. The staid respectability of Mr. Satterthwaite impressed her favorably. She bent her head.
"Thank you," she said, and got into the car, the door of which Masters was holding open.
In reply to a question from Mr. Satterthwaite, she gave an address in Chelsea, and he got in beside her.
The girl was upset and not in the mood for talking, and Mr. Satterthwaite was too tactful to intrude upon her thoughts. Presently, however, she turned to him and spoke of her own accord. "I wish," she said pettishly, "people wouldn't be so silly."
"It is a nuisance," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.