dying for. Beauty, in its hothouse variety (which is none of the worst),
flowered in box after box; and though nothing was said of profound
importance, and though it is generally agreed that wit deserted
beautiful lips about the time that Walpole died--at any rate when
Victoria in her nightgown descended to meet her ministers, the lips
(through an opera glass) remained red, adorable. Bald distinguished men
with gold-headed canes strolled down the crimson avenues between the
stalls, and only broke from intercourse with the boxes when the lights
went down, and the conductor, first bowing to the Queen, next to the
bald-headed men, swept round on his feet and raised his wand.

Then two thousand hearts in the semi-darkness remembered, anticipated,
travelled dark labyrinths; and Clara Durrant said farewell to Jacob
Flanders, and tasted the sweetness of death in effigy; and Mrs. Durrant,
sitting behind her in the dark of the box, sighed her sharp sigh; and
Mr. Wortley, shifting his position behind the Italian Ambassador's wife,
thought that Brangaena was a trifle hoarse; and suspended in the gallery
many feet above their heads, Edward Whittaker surreptitiously held a
torch to his miniature score; and ... and ...

In short, the observer is choked with observations. Only to prevent us
from being submerged by chaos, nature and society between them have
arranged a system of classification which is simplicity itself; stalls,
boxes, amphitheatre, gallery. The moulds are filled nightly. There is no
need to distinguish details. But the difficulty remains--one has to
choose. For though I have no wish to be Queen of England or only for a
moment--I would willingly sit beside her; I would hear the Prime
Minister's gossip; the countess whisper, and share her memories of halls
and gardens; the massive fronts of the respectable conceal after all
their secret code; or why so impermeable? And then, doffing one's own