happier," Florence replied.

"O, it is of no use. I am discontented by nature, I suppose. My ideals
are too high, my realities too low. Success among people of rank,
reputation, and intellect, is what I desire; a position among merchants,
manufacturers, and shop-keepers is what I have. For intellectual variety
I read a few papers before the Renaissance Club, and meet such
occasional notables as stop over here long enough to view the
stock-yards. I am the wife of a Chicago banker with all the prerogatives
of that position, but nothing more, and with no prospect of being
anything more."

"Nothing short of a coronet and a Court appointment would satisfy you, I
fear. As for merchants and shop-keepers, all American society is
composed mainly of them or their spendthrift children. But I am firm in
my intention not to argue any more, so let us go back to Madonna Laura.
If you want to feel better satisfied with Chicago, think about the
sickening spectacle of Roman society at the time of Petrarch, and the
futile efforts of his friend, Rienzi, to regenerate it."

"We sha'n't have time either for reading or discussion before dinner.
There is Roswell's key in the door, and he was never known to leave the
office before six o'clock. What gown are you going to wear? Something
charming, as usual; but don't forget that the drapery in the Auditorium
is old gold plush."

"Why, Marion, I had quite forgotten we were going to the Opera to-night.
Tamagno in 'Otello': that will be a treat."

CHAPTER IV.

IN AN OPERA BOX.

A long and motley line of carriages was slowly arriving at the
Auditorium entrance. A surging, gaping crowd was jostling the few
policemen on duty and trying to catch a glimpse of the brilliant dresses
of the women hurrying into the lobby. Long, furry wraps and covered
heads, perhaps a gleam of hidden diamonds, were all they saw; but it was
a passing glance into a forbidden, dazzling world. Footmen scurried,
doors were slammed, horses stamped, and husky-voiced policemen called
out orders to the coachmen. A long awning covered the carpeted walk, and
electric lamps shed a brilliant light upon the muffled comers and the
eager faces of the waiting crowd. It was not a wan, hungry crowd of
starving beggars, such as often surrounds a foreign theater; it was not
a silent, wondering crowd; but American-like, it was cheerful and
humorous, envious, perhaps, but merry in its envy. It laughed and gibed
at every novelty, a