d, "We shall have some time to wait for our luxury:" then
showing me the tickets, "Twelve and thirteen: it is a full night, and
all these people ahead of us."

"Is it a lottery?" I asked ignorantly.

"Very much of a lottery," Afra replied grimly--"like all the ways of
Bohemia, remarkably uncertain. You get a ticket for something in the
giving of the Muses, and you wait until your number is called. The
worst of it is, the most unlikely people are called before you, and
some get disgusted and leave: there goes one out at the door at this
moment. Well, he may be better or he may be worse off than those who
finally win: who knows if any race is worth the running? Still, if you
have courage to hold on, I believe there is no doubt that every one
ultimately gets something." Seeing my perplexity, she twisted the
round tickets between her fingers and added, "Do not be alarmed: these
are only good for a seat in the first empty 'bus that comes up. The
conductor will call out the numbers in rotation, and if ours is among
them we shall go. It is frightful that you have never ridden in a 'bus
before. I wonder where we should get ideas if we shut ourselves up in
cabs and never walked or were hungry or tired, and thought only of our
own comfort from morning till night? You don't know what you miss, you
poor deluded, unfortunate rich people. I will tell you of something
I saw the other evening; and, as it is worthy of a name, it shall be
called 'The Romance of an Omnibus.' Listen! isn't that our numbers I
heard? Yes: come quick or we shall lose our chance."

"Well," said I when we had successfully threaded the crowd and were
seated--"the romance."

"You have no idea of the fitness of things. My story is pathetic: it
will look badly to see you drowned in tears--people will stare."

"I promise not to cry."

"Oh, if you are one of those stolid, unemotional beings who are never
moved, I sha'n't waste my tale upon you. Wait until to-morrow: we
will get Monsieur C---- to recount, and you shall hear something worth
listening to. He is a regular troubadour--has the same artless vanity
they were known to possess, their charming simplicity, their
gestures, and their power of investing everything with romance. One is
transported to the Middle Ages while he speaks: no book written on the
subject could so fully give you the flavor of the times. He recalls
Froissart. If you are not affected by C----'s stories, you had better
pretend to be. But