I
left them in the vestibule and went to call on some of my friends. My
sister had a box in the second tier and I was fortunate enough to find her
there and alone with her husband. Almost directly underneath us in the
stalls Mr. Parker and Eve were sitting; and next Mr. Parker was a woman
wearing a pearl necklace. I asked my sister her name. She raised her
lorgnette and looked over the side of the box.
"Lady Orstline," she told me. "Her husband is a South African
millionaire."
"Are those real pearls she is wearing?" I inquired.
"My dear Paul," she laughed, "why not? Her husband is enormously wealthy
and they say that her jewels are wonderful. Unlike so many of those
people, she really does select very fine stones, independent of size.
Those pearls she is wearing now, for instance, are quite small, but their
luster is exquisite. What an extraordinary fat man is sitting next her--
and what a pretty girl!"
"Americans," I remarked.
"They look it," she agreed. "Quite the Gibson type of girl, isn't she?"
The curtain went up and we turned our attention to the stage. As a rule I
find music soothing; but that night proved an exception--perhaps because
my moderately well-ordered life had crumbled into pieces; because I was
conscious of a new and overmastering passion--the music appealed to me in
an altogether different way.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64