I think. My little friend had a free pass all over the house. I had not
been in it for years. In the old days I had always seen the stage from a
great height, craning over people's heads in a sultry twilight; now I
saw it on a level, seated at my ease. I had only the power of the Press
to thank for the change.

"Come here as often as I can," my companion said; "can't do without
music when it's to be had." Indeed he had the love of his race for it.
It seemed to soften him, to change his nature, as he sat silent by my
side.

But the closing notes of each scene found him out in the cool of the
corridors, talking, and being talked to by anyone that would vouchsafe
him a word.

"Pick up a lot here," he explained.

After the finale we leaned over one of the side balconies to watch the
crowd streaming down the marble staircases. It is a scene that I never
tire of. There is something so fantastically tawdry in the coloured
marble of the architecture. It is for all the world like a triumph of
ornamental soap work; one expects to smell the odours. And the torrent
of humanity pouring liquidly aslant through the mirror-like light, and
the spaciousness.... Yes, it is fantastic, somehow; ironical, too.

I was watching the devious passage of a rather drunken, gigantic, florid
Englishman, wondering, I think, how he would reach his bed.

"That must be a relation of yours," the correspondent said, pointing. My
glance followed the line indicated by his pale finger. I made out the