theatres, and what do they eat and drink
in the world nowadays? Oh, let me die in Harlem!" she was interrupted by
a violent attack of coughing, and Everett, embarrassed by her discomfort,
plunged into gossip about the professional people he had met in town
during the summer, and the musical outlook for the winter. He was
diagramming with his pencil some new mechanical device to be used at the
Metropolitan in the production of the _Rheingold_, when he became
conscious that she was looking at him intently, and that he was talking
to the four walls.

Katharine was lying back among the pillows, watching him through
half-closed eyes, as a painter looks at a picture. He finished his
explanation vaguely enough and put the pencil back in his pocket. As he
did so, she said, quietly: "How wonderfully like Adriance you are!"

He laughed, looking up at her with a touch of pride in his eyes that made
them seem quite boyish. "Yes, isn't it absurd? It's almost as awkward
as looking like Napoleon--But, after all, there are some advantages. It
has made some of his friends like me, and I hope it will make you."

Katharine gave him a quick, meaning glance from under her lashes. "Oh, it
did that long ago. What a haughty, reserved youth you were then, and how
you used to stare at people, and then blush and look cross. Do you
remember that night you took me home from a rehearsal, and scarcely spoke
a word to me?"

"It was the silence of admiration," protested Everett, "very crude and
boyish, but certainly sincere. Perhaps you suspected something of the
sort?"

"I believe I suspected a pose; the one that boys often affect with
singers. But it rather surprised me in you, for you must have seen a good
deal of your brother's pupils." Everett shook his head. "I saw my
brother's pupils come and go. Sometimes I was called on to play
accompaniments, or to fill out a vacancy at a rehearsal, or to order a
carriage for an infuriated soprano who had thrown up her part. But they
never spent any time on me, unless it was to notice the resemblance
you speak of."

"Yes," observed Katharine, thoughtfully, "I noticed it then, too; but it
has grown as you have grown older. That is rather strange, when you have
lived such different lives. It's not merely an ordinary family likeness
of features, you know, but the suggestion of the other man's personality
in your face--like an air transposed to another key. But I'm not
attempting to define it; it's beyond