ne of the front
stalls a solitary figure knelt, face buried in hands.

"There's Val, Belle. There, near the stage, to the left. I do believe
he's praying. And for what? For a man who had no brains, no heart; a
reckless, handsome man, who was simply a voice, a sweet, lying voice."

"For shame, Selene, for shame! He was your--he was our husband." Belle's
lips were white and trembling as she murmured, "May God rest his poor
soul. He was a sweet boy, poor Sig, may God rest his soul. Oh, how I
wish he were alive!" Selene looked disdainful, and her eyes grew black.

"I don't," she said, so loudly that a man in the next box leaned over,
and then as "Siegfried's Trauermarsch" sounded, the coffin was carried
in pompous procession from the building. There was a brief conflict
between the ushers and a lot of women over the flowers on the stage, and
every one, babbling and relieved, went out into the daylight.... The
widows waited until the police had emptied the house, then sent for
their carriage. They lunched at home and later, after many exchanges of
affection, Belle drove away to catch the evening train. Selene watched
her from the window.

"I do believe she loved him after all! I wish she'd set her cap now for
Val. Pooh! what a soft fool she is. Sig was _my_ legal husband, and I
alone can bear his name, for she has no certificate. What an interesting
name, Mrs. Siegfried Brazier, widow of the famous Wagnerian tenor. Is
that you, Val?" Val came in, dusty and exhausted.

"Did you go to the cemetery?" "Yes." "Was any one there?" "Only one old
woman." "Mrs. Madison!" cried Selene, in rasping, triumphant tones.

"No," wearily answered the man, lying....

INTERMEZZO

In his hand Frank Etharedge held a cablegram. The emotion of the moment
was one of triumph mixed with curiosity; his sensitive face a keyboard
over which his feelings swept the octave. He was alone in his office,
and from the windows on the top floor of this giant building he saw the
harbor, saw the river maculated with craft; saw the bay, the big
Statue--best of all saw steamships. This caught his fancies into one
chord and the keynote sounded: Yes, life was a good thing sometimes. A
few months more, in the spring, he would be sailing on just such an iron
carrier of joy, sailing to Paris, to Edna. He looked at the pink message
again. It announced in disconnected words that Mrs. Etharedge had been
bidden to the Paris Grand Opera. The cable was ten days