into the past, far away, through rose-coloured mists and diaphanous
veils, or resign herself, reclining in a silver skiff drawn by
swans, to the gentle current of some smooth-flowing river that ran
on forever and forever.

But a discordant element developed. Close by--the lights were so low
she could not tell where--a conversation, kept up in low whispers,
began by degrees to intrude itself upon her attention. Try as she
would, she could not shut it out, and now, as the music died away
fainter and fainter, till voice and orchestra blended together in a
single, barely audible murmur, vibrating with emotion, with romance,
and with sentiment, she heard, in a hoarse, masculine whisper, the
words:

"The shortage is a million bushels at the very least. Two hundred
carloads were to arrive from Milwaukee last night."

She made a little gesture of despair, turning her head for an
instant, searching the gloom about her. But she could see no one not
interested in the stage. Why could not men leave their business
outside, why must the jar of commerce spoil all the harmony of this
moment.

However, all sounds were drowned suddenly in a long burst of
applause. The tenor and soprano bowed and smiled across the
footlights. The soprano vanished, only to reappear on the balcony of
the pavilion, and while she declared that the stars and the
night-bird together sang "He loves thee," the voices close at hand
continued: