The words were spoken evenly, quietly, without any indication of that deep burst of triumph which glowed within him; for it was a triumph—a veritable one—one for which many men and most women would have made any sacrifice. He controlled himself admirably, too, at the opera and it was not until the end of the second act that he sought the box. He entered quietly and the introductions were accomplished in a moment. Besides Delroy and his wife, Miss Croydon and Drysdale were present. Their reception of him, it must be added, was somewhat icy, but this he did not seem to notice.
It was not to be denied that he added greatly to the life of the party; his comment was so apt, so brilliant, so illuminating, yet not in the least self-assured. Drysdale fell under the spell at once, and even the women, who naturally looked somewhat askance at the intruder—who, indeed, had greeted him with glances almost of repugnance—in the end yielded to it.
During a pause in the conversation, Delroy’s glance happened to fall upon the superb necklace of pearls which encircled his wife’s throat.
“Why, see there, Edith,” he cried, “how those pearls have changed. They seem absolutely lifeless.”
Mrs. Delroy picked up a strand with trembling fingers and looked at it.
“So they do,” she agreed, a little hoarsely. “That’s queer. They’ve changed since I put them on.”
“There’s a superstition, you know,” remarked Drysdale, “that pearls somehow possess an acute sympathy with their owner. When some disaster is about to happen, they grow dull, just as these have done.”
