"So am I," whispered Zoe, and blushed. The curtain rose.

"Listen now, Mr. Chatterbox," said Zoe.

Ned Severne composed himself to listen; but Fraulein Graas had not sung
many bars before he revolted. "Listen to what?" said he; "and look at
what? The only Marguerite in the place is by my side."

Zoe colored with pleasure; but her good sense was not to be blinded. "The
only good black Mephistophe-_less_ you mean," said she. "To be
Marguerite, one must be great, and sweet, and tender; yes, and far more
lovely than ever woman was. That lady is a better color for the part than
I am; but neither she nor I shall ever be Marguerite."

He murmured in her ear. "You are Marguerite, for you could fire a man's
heart so that he would sell his soul to gain you."

It was the accent of passion and the sensitive girl quivered. Yet she
defended herself--in words, "Hush!" said she. "That is wicked--out of an
opera. Fanny would laugh at you, if she heard."

Here were two reasons for not making such hot love in the stalls of an
opera. Which of the two weighed most with the fair reasoner shall be left
to her own sex.

The brief scene ended with the declaration of the evil spirit that
Marguerite is lost.

"There," said Zoe, naively, "that is over, thank goodness: now you will