married days, and asked him if it was not perfect. "I wish
we were going to have it all to ourselves; no one else can appreciate
the whole situation. Do you think we have made a mistake in having the
Triscoes?"

"We!" he retorted. "Oh, that's good! I'm going to shirk him, when it
comes to going behind the scenes."

"No, no, dearest," she entreated. "Snubbing will only make it worse. We
must stand it to the bitter end, now."

The curtain rose upon another laurelled bust of the Emperor, with a
chorus of men formed on either side, who broke into the grave and noble
strains of the Austrian Hymn, while every one stood. Then the curtain
fell again, and in the interval before the opera could begin, General
Triscoe and his daughter came in.

Mrs. March took the splendor in which the girl appeared as a tribute to
her hospitality. She had hitherto been a little disappointed of the open
homage to American girlhood which her readings of international romance
had taught her to expect in Europe, but now her patriotic vanity feasted
full. Fat highhotes of her own sex levelled their lorgnettes at Miss
Triscoe all around the horseshoe, with critical glances which fell
blunted from her complexion and costume; the house was brilliant
with the military uniforms, which we have not yet to mingle with our
unrivalled millinery, and the ardent gaze of the young officers dwelt on
the perfect mould of her girlish arms and neck, and the winning lines of
her face. The girl's eyes shone with a joyful excitement, and her little
head, defined by its dark hair, trembled as she slowly turned it from
side to side, after she removed the airy scarf which had covered it.
Her father, in evening dress, looked the Third Emperor complaisant to
a civil occasion, and took a chair in the front of the box without
resistance; and the ladies disputed which should yield the best place
to the other, till Miss Triscoe forced Mrs. March fondly into it for the
first act at least.

The piece had to be cut a good deal to give people time for the
illuminations afterwards; but as it was it gave scope to the actress
who, 'als Gast' from a Viennese theatre, was the chief figure in it. She
merited the distinction by the art which still lingered, deeply embedded
in her massive balk, but never wholly obscured.

"That is grand, isn't it?" said March, following one of the tremendous
strokes by which she overcame her physical disadvantages. "It's fine
to see how her art can un