chuckled the man.

"If I write the notices of a few minor concerts I always try to follow
your notions." She was out of breath and Viznina admired her without
reserve.

Calcraft was becoming slow of utterance. "You women are wonders when it
comes to criticism." The air darkened. Viznina looked unhappy and Mrs.
Calcraft rose: "Come, let us drink our coffee in my den, Herr Viznina, I
hate shop talk." She swept out of the room and the tenor, after a
dismissal from the drowsy critic, joined her.

"My headstrong husband doesn't care for coffee," she confessed,
apologetically. "Sit down where you were before. The soft light is so
becoming to you. Do you know that you have an ideal face for Tristan,
and this green recalls the forest scene. Now just fancy that I am Isolde
and tell me what your thoughts and feelings are in the second act."

Sitting beside her on the couch and watching her long fingers
milky-green with opals, Viznina spoke only of himself, with all the
meticulous delicacy of a Wagnerian tenor, and was thoroughly happy
playing the part of a tame Tristan.

III

Tristan and Isolde were in the middle of their passionate symphony of
flesh and spirit, when Tekla was ushered to the regular Calcraft seats
in the opera house. Her husband, who had been in the city all day,
returned to the house late for dinner, through which meal he dozed. He
then fell asleep on a couch. After dressing and waiting wearily until
nearly nine o'clock she had a carriage called and went to the opera
alone; not forgetting, however, to bid Magda leave a case of imported
beer where Mr. Calcraft could find it when he awoke....

Rather flustered, she watched the stage with anxious eyes. Brangaene--an
ugly, large person in a terra-cotta cheese-cloth peplum--had already
warned the desperate pair beneath the trees that dawn and danger were at
hand. But the lovers sang of death and love, and love and death; and
their sweet, despairing imagery floated on the oily waves of orchestral
passion. The eloquence became burning; Tekla had forgotten her
tribulations, Calcraft and time and space, when King Marke entered
accompanied by the blustering busybody Melot.

"Oh, these tiresome husbands!" she thought, and not listening to the
noble music of the deceived man, she presently slipped into the lobby.
The place was deserted, and as she paced up and down, she recollected
with pleasure the boyish-looking Tristan. How handsome he was! and how
his voice,