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"No, my dear Owen, I'm not a heretic, for I recognise the greatness of the music, and I could hear it with pleasure if it were confined to the orchestra, but I can find no pleasure in listening to a voice trying to accompany a hundred instruments. I heard 'Lohengrin' last season. I was in Mrs. Ayre's box a charming woman her husband is an American, but he never comes to London.
It is true her responsibility was mainly a figment of her own brain, but its burden upon her was none the less heavy for that. It must be admitted that Ayre's dealings with her were wanting in candor. Under the guise of family friendship, he led her on to open her mind to him. All this, Ayre recognized, with lively but suppressed satisfaction, was not as it should be.
Save for the absence of that bitter sense of hopelessness which the separation of death brings, Stafford might as well have passed on the road which, but for Ayre's intervention, he had marked out for himself.
This was tolerably direct, but it did not satisfy Ayre's malicious humor, and he was on the point of a new question when Haddington, who had taken no part in the previous conversation, but had his reasons for interfering now, put in suavely: "If Miss Bernard and you, Ayre, will forgive me, are we not wandering from the point?" "Was there any point to wander from?" suggested Eugene.
"I have spoken to Kate," she concluded, "but she takes no notice; will you do me a service?" "Of course," said Ayre; "anything I can." "Will you speak to Mr. Haddington?" This by no means suited Ayre's book. Moreover, it would very likely expose him to a snub, and he had no fancy for being snubbed by a man like Haddington. "I can hardly do that. I have no position.
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