There was a power in his
words that thrilled me for a second or so. I may have betrayed some
agitation in my answer. I closed my fan and opened it again nervously
before I replied:
"Have you heard that I am easily provoked to jealousy?"
"Not at all," he said in quite a serious voice, "and if I heard it a
thousand times I could not believe it. You are too sure of yourself to
give way to such a sentiment."
"But we cannot rely very much upon ourselves under some
circumstances."
"Very true, and very fortunately, for we resolve to support attitudes
under some circumstances, that are neither true to ourselves, nor fair
to our fellow-creatures. Don't you think so?" he asked, taking my fan
out of my lap and looking intently at it.
"I don't think I understand you very well," I answered timidly.
Just then the sounds of voices were hushed, and the loud strains of
Rossini's _Semiramide_ filled the room. That ended our conversation
for awhile. The music proceeded with little or no intermission, for
upwards of an hour. All the vocal and instrumental talent of the city
was present, and the audience was treated to a rare and most happily
rendered repertoire. Miss Hartmann had just finished an Arietta of
Beethoven's, which was rapturously received, when Alice Merivale stole
up behind me, radiant in pale green mist--as it seemed to me--to ask
how I enjoyed the selections.
I could scarcely think of answering her until my eyes had taken in the
full beauty of her face and form.
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