husky in "Die Walkuere," now rang out thrillingly! There!--she
heard it again, muffled indeed by the thick doors, but pure, free, full
of youthful fire. What a Tristan! And he had looked at her the night
before with the same ardor! A pity it was, that she, Tekla Calcraft,
born Tekla Bjoernsen, had not studied for the opera; had not sung
Sieglinde to his Siegmund; was not singing at this moment with such a
Tristan in the place of that fat Malska, old enough to be his mother!
and instead of being the wife of an indifferent man who-- ...

The act was over, the applause noisy. People began to press out through
the swinging doors, and Tekla, not caring to be caught alone, walked
around to the stage entrance. She met the Director, who made much of her
and took her through the archway presided over by a hoarse-voiced
keeper.

In his dressing-room Tristan welcomed her with outstretched hands.

"You are so good," and then quickly pointed to his throat.

"And you were superb," she responded unaffectedly.

"Your husband, is he here?" he asked, forgetting his throat.

"He is not here yet; he is detained down-town."

"But he will write the critique?" inquired Viznina with startled eyes.
Tekla did not at first answer him.

"I don't know," she replied thickly. He seized her hands.

"Oh, you will like my third act! I am there at my best," he declared
with all the muted vanity of a modest man. She was slightly
disappointed.

"I like everything you do," she slowly admitted. Viznina kissed her
wrists. She regarded him with maternal eyes.

As Tekla mounted the stairs her mind was made up. Fatigued as she was by
the exciting events of the past twenty-four hours, she reached the
press-room in a buoyant mood. It was smoky with the cigars and
cigarettes of a half dozen men who invented ideas, pleasant and
otherwise, about the opera, for the morning papers. Mrs. Calcraft was
greeted with warmth; like her husband she was a favorite, though an old
man grumbled out something about women abusing their privilege. Jetsam,
one of her devoted body-guard, gave her a seat, pen and paper, and told
her to go ahead; there were plenty of messenger boys in waiting. It was
not the first time Tekla had been in the press-room, the room of the
dreaded critical chain-gang, as Cal had named it. All asked after
Calcraft.

"He has gone to the Symphony Concert," replied Tekla unblushingly, and
young Jetsam winked his thin eyes at the rest. Feeling encou