I had satisfied the little man, and felt satisfied
with myself.

"I want to see Radet's article on Greenland," I said.

"Oh, yes," he explained, once more exhibiting himself in the capacity of
the man who knows, "Radet gives it to them. Rather a lark, I call it,
though you mustn't let old de Mersch know you read him. Radet got sick
of Cochin, and tried Greenland. He's getting touched by the Whites you
know. They say that the priests don't like the way the Systeme's playing
into the hands of the Protestants and the English Government. So they
set Radet on to write it down. He's going in for mysticism and all that
sort of thing--just like all these French jokers are doing. Got deuced
thick with that lot in the F. St. Germain--some relation of yours,
ain't they? Rather a lark that lot, quite the thing just now, everyone
goes there; old de Mersch too. Have frightful rows sometimes, such a
mixed lot, you see." The good little man rattled amiably along beside
me.

"Seems quite funny to be buying books," he said. "I haven't read a thing
I've bought, not for years."

We reached the Opera in time for the end of the first act--it was Aida,
I think. My little friend had a free pass all over the house. I had not
been in it for years. In the old days I had always seen the stage from a
great height, craning over people's heads in a sultry twilight; now I
saw it on a level, seated at my ease. I had only the power of the Press
to thank for the change.

"Come here as often as I can," my companion said; "can't do without
music when it's to be had." Indeed he had the love of his race for it.
It seemed to soften him, to change his nature, as he sat silent by my
side.

But the closing notes of each scene found him out in the cool of the
corridors, talking, and being talked to by anyone that would vouchsafe
him a word.

"Pick up a lot here," he explained.

After the finale we leaned over one of the side balconies to watch the
crowd streaming down the marble staircases. It is a scene that I never
tire of. There is something so fantastically tawdry in the coloured
marble of the architecture. It is for all the world like a triumph of
ornamental soap work; one expects to smell the odours. And the torrent
of humanity pouring liquidly aslant through the mirror-like light, and
the spaciousness.... Yes, it is fantastic, somehow; ironical, too.

I was watching the devious passage of a rather drunken, gigantic, florid
Englishman, wonderin