'I don't feel well enough,' she replied calmly.

She had not observed the tremor in my voice.

'But what's the matter?' I insisted.

'Nothing in particular, my dear. I do not feel equal to the exertion.'

'But, auntie--then I can't go, either.'

'I'm very sorry, dear,' she said. 'We will go to the next concert.'

'Diaz will never come again!' I exclaimed passionately. 'And the tickets
will be wasted.'

'My dear,' my Aunt Constance repeated, 'I am not equal to it. And you
cannot go alone.'

I was utterly selfish in that moment. I cared nothing whatever for my
aunt's indisposition. Indeed, I secretly accused her of maliciously
choosing that night of all nights for her mysterious fatigue.

'But, auntie,' I said, controlling myself, 'I must go, really. I shall
send Lucy over with a note to Ethel Ryley to ask her to go with me.'

'Do,' said my aunt, after a considerable pause, 'if you are bent
on going.'

I have often thought since that during that pause, while we faced each