Driscoll nodded and left his seat for Ruthven's box. When the
curtain rose for the third time he could be seen sitting with
the Misses Pratt and their vivacious young friend. A widower and
still on the right side of fifty, his presence there did not
pass unnoted, and curiosity was rife among certain onlookers as
to which of the twin belles was responsible for this change in
his well-known habits. Unfortunately, no opportunity was given
him for showing. Other and younger men had followed his lead
into the box, and they saw him forced upon the good graces of
the fascinating but inconsequent Miss Strange whose rapid fire
of talk he was hardly of a temperament to appreciate.

Did he appear dissatisfied? Yes; but only one person in the
opera house knew why. Miss Strange had shown no comprehension of
or sympathy with his errand. Though she chatted amiably enough
between duets and trios, she gave him no opportunity to express
his wishes though she knew them well enough, owing to the signal
he had given her.

This might be in character but it hardly suited his views; and,
being a man of resolution, he took advantage of an absorbing
minute on the stage to lean forward and whisper in her ear:

"It's my daughter for whom I request your services; as fine a
girl as any in this house. Give me a hearing. You certainly can
manage it."

She was a small, slight woman whose naturally quaint appearance
was accentuated by the extreme simplicity of her attire. In the
tier upon tier of boxes rising before his eyes, no other