es and
ordering the wine, went back reminiscently to the music, which had been
"La Boheme." The death of Mimi and the grief of Rodolph, as voiced by
the splendid melodies of Puccini, interested him.

"That makeshift studio world may have no connection with the genuine
professional artist, but it's very representative of life," he remarked.

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Braxmar, seriously.

"All I know of Bohemia is what I have read in books--Trilby, for
instance, and--" He could think of no other, and stopped. "I suppose
it is that way in Paris."

He looked at Berenice for confirmation and to win a smile. Owing to
her mobile and sympathetic disposition, she had during the opera been
swept from period to period by surges of beauty too gay or pathetic for
words, but clearly comprehended of the spirit. Once when she had been
lost in dreamy contemplation, her hands folded on her knees, her eyes
fixed on the stage, both Braxmar and Cowperwood had studied her parted
lips and fine profile with common impulses of emotion and enthusiasm.
Realizing after the mood was gone that they had been watching her,
Berenice had continued the pose for a moment, then had waked as from a
dream with a sigh. This incident now came back to her as well as her
feeling in regard to the opera generally.

"It is very beautiful," she said; "I do not know what to say. People
are like that, of course. It is so much better than just dull comfort.
Life is really finest when it's tragic, anyhow."

She looked at Cowperwood, who was studying her; then at Braxmar, who
saw himself for the moment on the captain's bridge of a battle-ship
commanding in time of action. To Cowperwood came back many of his
principal moments of difficulty. Surely his life had been sufficiently
dramatic to satisfy her.

"I don't think I care so much for it," interposed Mrs. Carter. "One
gets tired of sad happenings. We have enough drama in real life."

Cowperwood and Braxmar smiled faintly. Berenice looked contemplatively
away. The crush of diners, the clink of china and glass, the bustling
to and fro of waiters, and the strumming of the orchestra diverted her
somewhat, as did the nods and smiles of some entering guests who
recognized Braxmar and herself, but not Cowperwood.

Suddenly from a neighboring door, opening from the men's cafe and
grill, there appeared the semi-intoxicated figure of an ostensibly
swagger society man, his clothing somewhat awry, an opera-c