t was a night when he had taken her at the expense of a month's rigid
economizing on food. After vainly waiting for him to speak about it,
herself still tremulous and stirred by what she had just seen and heard,
she had asked the question.

"I liked the overture," was his answer. "It was splendid."

"Yes, but the opera itself?"

"That was splendid too; that is, the orchestra was, though I'd have
enjoyed it more if those jumping-jacks had kept quiet or gone off the
stage."

Ruth was aghast.

"You don't mean Tetralani or Barillo?" she queried.

"All of them--the whole kit and crew."

"But they are great artists," she protested.

"They spoiled the music just the same, with their antics and
unrealities."

"But don't you like Barillo's voice?" Ruth asked. "He is next to Caruso,
they say."

"Of course I liked him, and I liked Tetralani even better. Her voice is
exquisite--or at least I think so."

"But, but--" Ruth stammered. "I don't know what you mean, then. You
admire their voices, yet say they spoiled the music."

"Precisely that. I'd give anything to hear them in concert, and I'd give
even a bit more not to hear them when the orchestra is playing. I'm
afraid I am a hopeless realist. Great singers are not great actors. To
hear Barillo sing a love passage with the voice of an angel, and to hear
Tetralani reply like another angel, and to hear it all accompanied by a
perfect orgy of glowing and colorful music--is ravishing, most ravishing.
I do not admit it. I assert it. But the whole effect is spoiled when I
look at them--at Tetralani, five feet ten in her stocking feet and
weighing a hundred and ninety pounds, and at Barillo, a scant five feet
four, greasy-featured, with the chest of a squat, undersized blacksmith,
and at the pair of them, attitudinizing, clasping their breasts, flinging
their arms in the air like demented creatures in an asylum; and when I am
expected to accept all this as the faithful illusion of a love-scene
between a slender and beautiful princess and a handsome, romantic, young
prince--why, I can't accept it, that's all. It's rot; it's absurd; it's
unreal. That's what's the matter with it. It's not real. Don't tell me
that anybody in this world ever made love that way. Why, if I'd made
love to you in such fashion, you'd have boxed my ears."

"But you misunderstand," Ruth protested. "Every form of art has its
limitations." (She was busy recalling a lecture she had hea