said Lady Barbour, with a charming, puzzled frown. “Of late he has taken to acting very strangely, dropping all manner of ominous hints about I know not what. I vow I begin to wonder if there isn’t a teeny bit of lunacy in the Frobishers, because it’s plain as a pikestaff that something has turned his brain!” To this unkind observation, her ladyship’s companions withheld comment, although Miss Phyfe silently bewailed the viscount’s misconceptions concerning wickedness, and Miss Whateley reflected mutely that it was not the Frobishers who were paper-skulled. This lack of verbal response was prompted by no sense of grievance on the parts of Miss Whateley and Miss Phyfe. The ladies were in attendance at the King’s Theater in the Haymarket, and two of the three occupants of Lord Phyfe’s box—purchased on a subscription basis for the benefit of his relatives—were interested in what transpired on the stage. Sidoney, demonstrably, was not, even though the performance this evening was Semiramide, featuring that temperamental virago, Madame Catalini, whose piercing voice drowned out orchestra and chorus.
