was the door of a music-seller's shop. Teresa led her in, and asked for
a chair and a glass of water. The proprietor, feeling the interest in
Carmina which she seldom failed to inspire among strangers, went the
length of offering her a glass of wine. Preferring water, she soon
recovered herself sufficiently to be able to leave her chair.

"May I change my mind about going to the museum?" she said to her
companion. "After what has happened, I hardly feel equal to looking at
curiosities."

Teresa's ready sympathy tried to find some acceptable alternative.
"Music would be better, wouldn't it?" she suggested.

The so-called Italian Opera was open that night, and the printed
announcement of the performance was in the shop. They both looked at
it. Fortune was still against them. A German opera appeared on the
bill. Carmina turned to the music-seller in despair. "Is there no
music, sir, but German music to be heard in London?" she asked. The
hospitable shopkeeper produced a concert programmed for that
afternoon--the modest enterprise of an obscure piano-forte teacher, who
could only venture to address pupils, patrons, and friends. What did he
promise? Among other things, music from "Lucia," music from "Norma,"
music from "Ernani." Teresa made another approving mark with her
thumb-nail; and Carmina purchased tickets.

The music-seller hurried to the door to stop the first empty cab that
might pass. Carmina showed a deplorable ignorance of the law of
chances. She shrank from the bare idea of getting into a cab. "We may
run over some other poor creature," she said. "If it isn't a dog, it
may be a child next time." Teresa and the music-seller suggested a more