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
reasonable view as gravely as they could. Carmina humbly submitted to
the claims of common sense--without yielding, for all that. "I know I'm
wrong," she confessed. "Don't spoil my pleasure; I can't do it!"

The strange parallel was now complete. Bound for the same destination,
Carmina and Ovid had failed to reach it alike. And Carmina had stopped
to look at the garden of the British Museum, before she overtook Ovid in
the quiet square.

CHAPTER IV.

If, on entering the hall, Ovid had noticed the placards, he would have
found himself confronted by a coincidence. The person who gave the
concert was also the person who taught music to his half-sisters. Not
many days since, he had himself assisted the enterprise, by taking
a ticket at his mother's request. Seeing nothing, remembering
nothing--hurried by the fear of losing sight of the two strangers if
there was a large audience--he impatiently paid for another ticket, at
the doors.

The room was little more than half full, and so insufficiently
ventilated that the atmosphere was oppressive even under those
circumstances. He easily discovered the two central chairs, in the
midway row of seats, which she and her companion had chosen. There was a
vacant chair (among many others) at one extremity of the row in front
of them. He took that place. To look at her, without being
discovered--there, so far, was the beginning and the end of his utmost
desire.

The performances had already begun. So long as her attention was
directed to the singers and players on the platform, he could feast his
eyes on her with impunity. In an unoccupied interval, she looked at the
audience--and discovered him.

Had he offended her?

If appearances were to be trusted, he had produced no impression of any
sort. She quietly looked away, towards the other side of the room.
The mere turning of her head was misinterpreted by Ovid as an implied
rebuke. He moved to the row of seats behind her. She was now nearer to
him than she had been yet. He was again content, and more than content.
The next performance was a solo on the piano. A round of applause
welcomed the player. Ovid looked at the platform for the first time.
In the bowing man, with a prematurely bald head and a servile smile,
he recognized Mrs. Gallilee's music-maste