d
admiration. Commonly there is one woman in a theatre at whom all glances
are leveled. It is a mystery why one face makes only an individual
appeal, and an appeal much stronger than that of one universally
admired. The house certainly concerned itself very little about the shy
and dark heiress in the Mavick box, having with regard to her only a
moment's curiosity. But the face instantly took hold of Philip. He found
it more interesting to read the play in her face than on the stage. He
seemed instantly to have established a chain of personal sympathy with
her. So intense was his regard that it seemed as if she must, if there
is anything in the telepathic theory of the interchange of feeling,
have been conscious of it. That she was, however, unconscious of any
influence reaching her except from the stage was perfectly evident.
She was absorbed in the drama, even when the drama was almost lost in
darkness, and only an occasional grunting ejaculation gave evidence that
there was at least animal life responsive to the continual pleading,
suggesting, inspiring strains of the orchestra. In the semi-gloom
and groping of the under-world, it would seem that the girl felt that
mystery of life which the instruments were trying to interpret.

At any rate, Philip could see that she was rapt away into that other
world of the past, to a practical unconsciousness of her immediate
surroundings. Was it the music or the poetic idea that held her? Perhaps
only the latter, for it is Wagner's gift to reach by his creations
those who have little technical knowledge of music. At any rate, she was
absorbed, and so perfectly was the progress of the drama repeated in her
face that Philip, always with the help of the orchestra, could trace it
there.

But presently something more was evident to this sympathetic student
of her face. She was not merely discovering the poet's world, she was
finding out herself. As the drama unfolded, Philip was more interested
in this phase than in the observation of her enjoyment and appreciation.
To see her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow with enthusiasm during the
sword-song was one thing, but it was quite another when Siegfried began
his idyl, that nature and bird song of the awakening of the whole being
to the passion of love. Then it was that Evelyn's face had a look
of surprise, of pain, of profound disturbance; it was suffused with
blushes, coming and going in passionate emotion; the eyes no longer
blazed,