"A relative! A brother! Fra
Filippo, who has come all the way from England and never written."
"I left a message."
The audience began to hiss.
"Come in to us."
"Thank you--ladies--there is not time--"
The next moment he was swinging by his arms. The moment
after he shot over the balustrade into the box. Then the
conductor, seeing that the incident was over, raised his
baton. The house was hushed, and Lucia di Lammermoor
resumed her song of madness and death.
Philip had whispered introductions to the pleasant
people who had pulled him in--tradesmen's sons perhaps they
were, or medical students, or solicitors' clerks, or sons of
other dentists. There is no knowing who is who in Italy.
The guest of the evening was a private soldier. He shared
the honour now with Philip. The two had to stand side by
side in the front, and exchange compliments, whilst Gino
presided, courteous, but delightfully familiar. Philip
would have a spasm of horror at the muddle he had made. But
the spasm would pass, and again he would be enchanted by the
kind, cheerful voices, the laughter that was never vapid,
and the light caress of the arm across his back.
He could not get away till the play was nearly finished,
and Edgardo was singing amongst the tombs of ancestors. His
new friends hoped to see him at the Garibaldi tomorrow
evening. He promised; then he remembered that if they kept
to Harriet's plan he would have left Monteriano. "At ten
o'clock, then," he said to Gino.
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