"Ask Dr. Maccanfrae, he is wiser than I," she replied.
"Dr. Maccanfrae, who should you say read the society columns of the newspapers?" he asked.
"People who expect to find their names in print, and people who think their names ought to be in print, to say nothing of those who read society columns, as they do society scandals, in order to get a reflection of the tinsel and tarnish of an unknown world."
"That must include a great portion of newspaper readers," replied Duncan.
"Precisely; that is why society scandals and fashions occupy so large a portion of our papers," the Doctor replied. "But there comes the conductor, so I must get back to my place."
"Won't you remain here, Doctor?" said Mrs. Sanderson.
"No, I thank you. I only came in to pay my respects, and, as I have a musical friend with me, I must get back to him."
The Doctor hurried away and the little man away down in front lifted his baton. Ninety musicians watched the beat of the first bar, and, as the baton fell, sixty bows moved in unison, and trumpets, horns, trombones, and reeds, added their strains, while the act drop slowly rose disclosing the great stage, gorgeously set as Otello's audience-chamber.
"I must tell you an amusing tale about 'Otello,'" whispered Mrs. Sanderson to Duncan Grahame. "I was in Rome when the opera was brought out there, and went with the American minister and his wife. Revere was their name and they came from Tallahassee. He had been a congressman, but she had never been away from home until she went as the wife of our representative in Austria, so you can imagine her ignorance of the world. She watched the opera quietly until she noticed that the black Otello bore some relation to the white Desdemona. That made her hem and fidget, but when Otello embraced his wife, she put up her fan in disgust, and said indignantly to me: 'How outrageous! I assure you such conduct would not be tolerated in Tallahassee.'"
Grahame laughed, and then they listened to the grand music of Verdi for a while, but it was not the opera which inspired their interest, for the subtle spell of similarity seemed to arouse the sympathy of kindred taste. Bright phrases and pleasing words flashed between them, and quickly another act passed. Again the people rose and talked, again visitors came to the box and uttered conventional insipidities. Finally Roswell Sanderson himself returned. He had passed the evening in the manager's office with some friends, but his wife did not even express a curiosity to know it. The curtain rose on the last act. "Come," said Wainwright to Duncan, "we must go back to our seats. Good-night, Mrs. Sanderson." "Good-night, Mr. Grahame." "A demain," said Duncan, and he was off. Another act of the opera was rendered, then the great house was slowly emptied, and hundreds of carriages bore their occupants away. The lights went out, the weary artists hurried home, the Auditorium was left cold, silent and deserted.