red
Ottenburg had hinted to him that, more than almost anything else, that
would put one in wrong.

When he reached the number to which he directed his letters, he
dismissed the cab and got out for a walk. The house in which Thea lived
was as impersonal as the Waldorf, and quite as large. It was above 116th
Street, where the Drive narrows, and in front of it the shelving bank
dropped to the North River. As Archie strolled about the paths which
traversed this slope, below the street level, the fourteen stories of
the apartment hotel rose above him like a perpendicular cliff. He had no
idea on which floor Thea lived, but he reflected, as his eye ran over
the many windows, that the outlook would be fine from any floor. The
forbidding hugeness of the house made him feel as if he had expected to
meet Thea in a crowd and had missed her. He did not really believe that
she was hidden away behind any of those glittering windows, or that he
was to hear her this evening. His walk was curiously uninspiring and
unsuggestive. Presently remembering that Ottenburg had encouraged him to
study his lesson, he went down to the opera house and bought a libretto.
He had even brought his old "Adler's German and English" in his trunk,
and after luncheon he settled down in his gilded suite at the Waldorf
with a big cigar and the text of "Lohengrin."

The opera was announced for seven-forty-five, but at half-past seven
Archie took his seat in the right front of the orchestra circle. He had
never been inside the Metropolitan Opera House before, and the height of
the audience room, the rich color, and the sweep of the balconies were
not without their effect upon him. He watched the house fill with a
growing feeling of expectation. When the steel curtain rose and the men
of the orchestra took their places, he felt distinctly nervous. The
burst of applause which greeted the conductor keyed him still higher. He
found that he had taken off his gloves and twisted them to a string.
When the lights went down and the violins began the overture, the place
looked larger than ever; a great pit, shadowy and solemn. The whole
atmosphere, he reflected, was somehow more serious than he had
anticipated.

After the curtains were drawn back upon the scene beside the Scheldt, he
got readily into the swing of the story. He was so much interested in
the bass who sang KING HENRY that he had almost forgotten for what he
was waiting so nervously, when the HERALD began