"Well," said Ethel, "this is not the place for them," turning her eyes
to the stage again.

The concluding acts of the opera were a jangle of chords and discords,
and the hum of voices was like the murmur of a far-off sea. My eyes
remained fixed upon the stage. It was like looking through a broken
kaleidoscope. I wanted to be alone, alone with my pipe. I was glad
when we at last entered the carriage. Mrs. Wentworth immediately began
to extol the singers, and Phyllis, with that tact which is given only
to kind-hearted women, answered most of the indirect questions put to
me. She was giving me time to recover. The direct questions I could
not avoid. Occasionally I looked out of the window. It had begun to
rain again. It was very dreary.

"And what a finale, Mr. Winthrop!" cried Mrs. Wentworth,

"Yes, indeed," I replied. To have loved and lost, and such a woman,
was my thought.

"The new tenor is an improvement. Do you not think so?"

"Yes, indeed." No more to touch her hand, to hear her voice, to wait
upon her wishes.

"It was the most brilliant audience of the season."

"Yes, indeed," I murmured. Those were the only words I could
articulate.

The carriage rumbled on.