m._) But where is
Mr. Sternwall?

MRS. STERNWALL.

Oh, Henry always goes across to Hammerstein's Olympia during the acts,
but he will join us for each of the entre-acts.

(_She takes up her opera glass, and examines the house minutely._)

MISS BEEBAR.

What is the opera?

MRS. MORLEY.

Tristan and Isolde. I don't care for the new woman; do you? Somehow she
hasn't the soul for Wagner. She sings well enough, mechanically, but
she doesn't feel enough.

MISS BEEBAR.

Precisely. That's a wig of course; isn't it? And what an ugly one!

MRS. STERNWALL.

(_Low to Mr. Easterfelt._) Come to-morrow at four. He has taken to
leaving the office much earlier the last few days.

(_Owing to a sudden pause in the music, her voice has been heard
quite distinctly. She is embarrassed for a moment, to cover which she
leans over toward Mrs. Morley and Miss Beebar._)

I wish Eames sang in this, she wears such good clothes.

MR. CARN.

What's that about Eames?

MISS BEEBAR.

I thought Eames' name would wake you up!

MR. CARN.

I was listening to the music.

MISS BEEBAR.

Don't be absurd; you know you never come to hear the opera, except when
I am going.

MR. CARN.

Or when Eames sings.

MISS BEEBAR.

Ah! you acknowledge it! You brute!

MR. CARN.

It's her arms, and her eyes, and her hair. You must acknowledge she's
very beautiful----

MISS BEEBAR.

(_Interrupts._) For heaven's sake stop; you bore me to death. Besides
you must listen. It isn't the thing to talk at the opera any more.

(_Isolde gives Tristan the cup with the love potion in it._)

MRS. STERNWALL.

(_In a very low voice to Mr. Easterfelt._) Just before the curtain
falls change your position quietly. Go near Miss Beebar and Mrs.
Morley, on account of Henry. He will come to the box the minute the
lights are turned up.

MISS BEEBAR.

(_Very low to Mr. Carn._) I _hate_ Eames!

MR. CARN.

No. (_He kisses, without sound, her bare shoulders._)

(_Tristan and Isolde approach each other with outstretched arms. For
the first time Mrs. Morley takes her gaze from the stage. It rests upon
a dim figure in a certain seat in the Opera Club's box. Her eyes are
full of tears._)

A Perfect Day

A Leaf from the Diary of Mrs. Herbert Dearborn, Living in Paris

_May --, 1897._

A charming, delightful day! Marie brought me my coffee at nine, as
usual, with a perfect mail. No nasty business letters from America, but
only most desirable