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'I hope you will consider me as much your
friend to-day as I was yesterday.'
'Quite as much,' she answered sweetly, and then they talked of Raff, and
Rubenstein, and Henselt, and all the composers about whom it is the
correct thing to discourse nowadays.
Before they left Belgrave Square Lady Kirkbank had offered Mr. Smithson
Sir George's place in her box at the Gaiety that evening, and had
invited him to supper in Arlington Street afterwards.
It was Sarah Bernhardt's first season in London--the
never-to-be-forgotten season of the Comedie Francaise.
'I should love of all things to be there,' said Mr. Smithson, meekly. He
had a couple of stalls in the third row for the whole of the season.
'But how can I be sure that I shall not be turning Sir George out of
doors?'
'Sir George can never sit out a serious play. He only cares for Chaumont
or Judie. The Demi-monde is much too prosy for him.'
'The Demi-monde is one of the finest plays in the French language,' said
Smithson. 'You know it, of course, Lady Lesbia?'
'Alas! no.


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