The rest of the day was spent in preparations for the departure. Not least amongst these preparations was the selection for the Professor and Kearns, of a wardrobe which would modernize them in dress, at least. Some further instruction as to the changes which had taken place and as to the methods and manners of the Court were also given, with General Mainwarren and the Colonel as instructors. Interspersed with matters of Court etiquette, they learned the details of the great war recently so successfully closed between Russia and the Allies—the United States and Great Britain—in which, after many fierce struggles and an invasion resembling in many details that of the great Napoleon, the power of the fierce, barbaric Colossus of the North had finally been crushed.
At dinner that evening, Beatrice, full of life and spirits, was in joyous anticipation of the journey before them. Her prattle kept the party in merry mood, all except General Mainwarren, who seemed somewhat thoughtful and preoccupied.
“We will enjoy our coffee and cigars in the music room,” said the Colonel to the Professor and Kearns, when dinner was over. “You shall indulge in a treat that was unattainable in your times.”
He led the way to a spacious apartment adjoining the library—an apartment from walls of which protruded a number of giant-like trumpets.
“There,” said the Colonel, pointing to two of the larger instruments, “we have direct connection with the Haymarket Theatre, in London, and also with the Covent Garden Theatre. Those other two instruments connect with two opera houses in Paris. I cannot treat you to English, or to French opera. Owing to the difference in time, neither of these cities is in action at its theatres at this moment. I can, however, let you hear some of the leading attractions in New York.”
“Yon mean to say,” exclaimed the Professor with rapt interest, “that you are practically in telephonic communication with the principal cities of the world?”
“Hardly that,” answered the Colonel modestly, “since my music room is not large enough to permit of it, but it could be done. As it is, I am in touch with London, Paris, and several of the principal cities in this country. Now, listen to this. I am going to connect with the Folly Theatre, in New York. They have a revival on there of an old operetta; quite a favorite, I believe, in your time.”
“What is its name?” asked Kearns.
“Dolly Varden,” replied the Colonel effusively; “Dolly Varden, the title rôle of which, if I recall aright, was created by that charming artiste of your day, Glaser—the glorious Glaser, whose name has come down to us as the queen of comedy of the Western world.”
As the Colonel finished speaking, he turned a rubber-covered knob in the wall beside one of the instruments and instantly there floated through the room the strains of “The Lay of the Jay,” from Edwards’ captivating operetta. Sweetly and clearly music and words floated into the room: