Laura sank back in the cool gloom of the carriage's interior
redolent of damp leather and upholstery.

"What an evening! What an evening!" she murmured.

On the way home both she and Page appealed to the artist, who knew
the opera well, to hum or whistle for them the arias that had
pleased them most. Each time they were enthusiastic. Yes, yes, that
was the air. Wasn't it pretty, wasn't it beautiful?

But Aunt Wess' was still unsatisfied.

"I don't see yet," she complained, "why the young man, the one with
the pointed beard, didn't marry that lady and be done with it. Just
as soon as they'd seem to have it all settled, he'd begin to take on
again, and strike his breast and go away. I declare, I think it was
all kind of foolish."

"Why, the duke--don't you see. The one who sang bass--" Page
laboured to explain.

"Oh, I didn't like him at all," said Aunt Wess'. "He stamped around
so." But the audience itself had interested her, and the decollete
gowns had been particularly impressing.

"I never saw such dressing in all my life," she declared. "And that
woman in the box next ours. Well! did you notice that!" She raised
her eyebrows and set her lips together. "Well, I don't want to say
anything."