Thelma's face grew very pale, and her hand closed more tightly on the fan she held.
"You have said that so very, very often lately, Clara!" she murmured. "You seem so sure that he will get tired—that all men get tired. I do not think you know Philip—he is not like any other person I have ever met. And why should he go behind the scenes to such a person as Violet Vere—"
At that moment the box-door opened with a sharp click, and Errington entered alone. He looked disturbed and anxious.
"Neville is not well," he said abruptly, addressing his wife. "I've sent him home. He wouldn't have been able to sit this thing out." And he glanced half angrily towards the stage—the curtain had just gone up again and displayed the wondrous Violet Vere still in her "humming-bird" character, swinging on the branch of a tree and (after the example of all humming-birds) smoking a cigar with brazen-faced tranquillity.
"I am sorry he is ill," said Thelma gently. "That is why you were so long away?"
"Was I long?" returned Philip somewhat absently. "I didn't know it. I went to ask a question behind the scenes."
Lady Winsleigh coughed and glanced at Thelma, whose eyes dropped instantly.
"I suppose you saw Violet Vere?" asked Clara.
"Yes, I saw her," he replied briefly. He seemed irritable and vexed—moreover, decidedly impatient. Presently he said—
"Lady Winsleigh, would you mind very much if we left this place and went home? I'm rather anxious about Neville—he's had a shock. Thelma doesn't care a bit about this piece, I know, and if you are not very much absorbed—"