to acknowledge her own mistakes, but they exasperated her less than the
blunders of her parents. She was sure, for instance, that she was on
what Mrs. Heeny called "the right tack" at last: yet just at the moment
when her luck seemed about to turn she was to be thwarted by her
father's stupid obstinacy about the opera-box...

She lay brooding over these things till long after Mrs. Spragg had gone
away to dress for dinner, and it was nearly eight o'clock when she heard
her father's dragging tread in the hall.

She kept her eyes fixed on her book while he entered the room and moved
about behind her, laying aside his hat and overcoat; then his steps came
close and a small parcel dropped on the pages of her book.

"Oh, father!" She sprang up, all alight, the novel on the floor, her
fingers twitching for the tickets. But a substantial packet emerged,
like nothing she had ever seen. She looked at it, hoping, fearing--she
beamed blissful interrogation on her father while his sallow smile
continued to tantalize her. Then she closed on him with a rush,
smothering his words against her hair.

"It's for more than one night--why, it's for every other Friday! Oh, you
darling, you darling!" she exulted.

Mr. Spragg, through the glittering meshes, feigned dismay. "That so?
They must have given me the wrong--!" Then, convicted by her radiant
eyes as she swung round on him: "I knew you only wanted it ONCE for
yourself. Undine; but I thought maybe, off nights, you'd like to send it
to your friends."