ered what would happen when her careless lover arrived. Soon the
crowd drifted in from the balcony and the great music-room, its solemn
oak walls and ceilings blazing with light, was jammed. Near the
concert-grand gathered a group of music makers, in which Wolfram
Eschenbach's golden beard and melancholy eyes were at once singled out
by sentimental damsels. He had long been the by-word of match-making
mammas because of his devotion to a hopeless cause. Elizabeth Landgrave
admired his good qualities, but her heart was held by that rake,
_vaurien_ and man about town, dashing Harry Tannhaeuser; and as Wolfram
bent over Miss Landgrave her uncle could not help regretting that girls
were so obstinate.

A crashing of chords announced that the hour had arrived. After the
"Tannhaeuser" overture, Elizabeth Landgrave arose to sing. Instantly
there was a stillness. She looked very fair in her clinging gown, and as
her powerful, well modulated soprano uttered the invocation to the
Wartburg "Dich, teure Halle, gruess ich wieder," the thrill of excitement
was intensified by the appearance of Henry Tannhaeuser in the doorway at
the lower end of the room. If Elizabeth saw him her voice did not reveal
emotion, and she gave, with rhetorical emphasis, "Froh gruess ich dich,
geliebter Raum."

"He looks pretty well knocked out, doesn't he?" whispered Biterolf to
Mrs. Minne. She curled her lip. She had long set her heart on
Tannhaeuser, but since he preferred to sing the praises of Mrs. Holda,
she slaked her feelings by cutting up his character in slices and
serving them to her friends with a saintly smile.

"Poor old Harry," went on Biterolf in his clumsy fashion. "Your poor old
Harry had better keep away from his Venus," snapped the other; "he looks
as if he'd been going the pace too fast." Every one looked curiously at
the popular tenor. He stood the inspection very well, though his
clean-shaven face was slightly haggard, his eyes sunken and bloodshot.
But he was such good style, as the women remarked, and his bearing, as
ever, gallant.

Elizabeth ended with "Sei mir gegruesst," and there was a volley of
handclapping. Tannhaeuser made his way to the piano. His attitude was
anything but penitent; the girl did not stir a muscle. He shook hands.
Then he complimented her singing. She bowed her head stiffly. Tannhaeuser
smiled ironically.

"I suppose I ought to do the conventional operatic thing," he
murmured--"cry aloud, 'Let me kneel fo