the stage--a stout, short young man in red plush doublet and grey
silk tights. His chin advanced, an arm extended, one hand pressed to
his breast, he apostrophised the pavilion, that now and then swayed
a little in the draught from the wings.

The aria was received with furor; thrice he was obliged to repeat
it. Even Corthell, who was critical to extremes, approved, nodding
his head. Laura and Page clapped their hands till the very last. But
Landry Court, to create an impression, assumed a certain
disaffection.

"He's not in voice to-night. Too bad. You should have heard him
Friday in 'Aida.'"

The opera continued. The great soprano, the prima donna, appeared
and delivered herself of a song for which she was famous with
astonishing eclat. Then in a little while the stage grew dark, the
orchestration lapsed to a murmur, and the tenor and the soprano
reentered. He clasped her in his arms and sang a half-dozen bars,
then holding her hand, one arm still about her waist, withdrew from
her gradually, till she occupied the front-centre of the stage. He
assumed an attitude of adoration and wonderment, his eyes uplifted
as if entranced, and she, very softly, to the accompaniment of the
sustained, dreamy chords of the orchestra, began her solo.

Laura shut her eyes. Never had she felt so soothed, so cradled and
lulled and languid. Ah, to love like that! To love and be loved.
There was no such love as that to-day. She wished that she could
loose her clasp upon the sordid, material modern life that,
perforce, she must hold to, she knew not why, and drift, drift off