de the Metropolitan once or twice before, havin' blown
myself to a standee just for the sake of lookin' at the real things with
their war paint on, but I wasn't feelin' any more to home in the back of
that box than I would in the pilot house of an air ship.

But the Lady Brigandess didn't show no more stage fright than an
auctioneer. She just holds her chin up and looks out at all that display
of openwork dressmaking and cut glass exhibit without so much as battin'
an eyelash. She was takin' it all in, too, from the bargain hats in the
fam'ly circle, to the diamond tummy warmers in the parterre, but you'd
never guessed that she'd just escaped from a Dago back district where
they have one mail a week. If I hadn't seen her chumming with a hold-up
gang that couldn't have bought fifteen cent lodgings on the Bowery, I'd
bet the limit that she was a thoroughbred in disguise.

There was some rubberin' at her, of course, and I expect we had the
safety vault crowd guessin' as to what kind of a prize the Van Urbans
had won, but it didn't feaze her a bit. She just gave 'em the Horse Show
stare, as cool as a mint frappe. The ringin' up of the curtain didn't
disturb her any, either. When a chesty baritone sauntered down toward
the footlights and began callin' the chorus names she glanced over her
shoulder, casual like, just to see what the row was all about, and then
went on sizin' up the folks in the boxes. She couldn't have done it
better if she'd taken lessons by mail.

"If she would only talk!" gurgles Mrs. Van Urban. "Doesn't she speak
anything but Italian?"

"Pure Tuscan is all she knows," says the Boss, "and the way she talks it
is better than any music you'll hear to-night. Wait until she has
satisfied her eyes."

Pretty soon the baritone quits jawin' the chorus and a prima donna in
spangled clothes comes to the front. Maybe it was Melba, or Nordica.
Anyway, she was an A-1 warbler. She hadn't let go of more'n a dozen
notes before the Lady Brigandess begins to sit up and take notice. First
she has a kind of surprised look, as if a ringer had been sprung on her;
and then, as the high C artist begins to let herself go, she swings
around and listens with both ears. The music didn't seem to go in one
side and out the other. It stuck somewhere between, and swayed and
lifted her like a breeze in a posy bush. I could hear her toe tappin'
out the tune and see her head keep time to it. Why, if I could get my
money's worth out of