h was open to all comers; to the house which
contained more than one family. I made my way up stairs and knocked at
a door to which Franz's card was attached.

It was opened by Marie. She stood before me with a handkerchief tied
over her head, and a broom in her hand, but she looked, to me, as
beautiful as she had done behind the glare of the foot-lights. Her
simplicity was here even more fascinating.

She held the door partly open, while I, to recover myself, asked for
Franz. She told me he was gone out, but would return soon, if I would
wait for him. I was never less anxious to see any person than then to
see Franz, but I could not resist entering the room, and this, in
spite of the apologetic air of Marie. The room looked as neat as I had
imagined it, seeing it from the mirror of Marie's mind. I should say
it scarcely needed that broom which still remained expectantly in
Marie's hand. A piano, spider-legged, in the number and thinness of
these supports, stood at one side of the room, weighed down with
classic-looking music. A bouquet, that had been given by the hand of
the prima donna to Marie, stood upon the piano.

Otherwise it was a common enough looking room. Some remark being
necessary, I inquired of Franz's health, and hoped he was not wearing
himself out with hard work; I had seen him regularly at the opera.
Marie encouraged me with regard to her brother's health, and still,
the opera even did not serve to open a conversation with Marie.

Then, indeed, did I wish that I was the hero of a novel. I might have
told her I was writing an opera, and have asked her to study for
its heroine. I might have retired, and sent her, directly and
mysteriously, a grand piano of the very grandest scale. Or, I might
have asked her to sit down to that old-fashioned instrument, and have
asked her to let me hear her sing, for my nieces were in need of a new
teacher. I might have engaged Franz, with promise of a high salary, to
write me the music of songs, or a new sonata. But I had neither the
salary nor the nieces. I had not even an excuse for standing there. It
was very foolish of me, but I could not help feeling that it was
exceedingly impertinent of me to be there.

Instead of informing Marie that I was intimately acquainted with her,
that I had shared every emotion of her soul, on the exciting opera
night, I stated that I could call again upon brother Franz. I
regretted, at the same time, that I had not my card, and left