There was a curious, half-detached sadness in her tone. Frank wondered suddenly if he had blundered. Bertha had never mentioned her parents. He vaguely understood that they had died abroad and had foreborne to question, fearing to arouse some tragic memory.
"Of course, it really doesn't matter," he said hastily; "it's only when people put on airs that I think of such things." She took his arm with fingers that trembled slightly. "Let us go in. The overture is beginning."
During an intermission she whispered. "I wish I were like Carmen--bold enough to fight the world for lo--for what I wanted."
"Aren't you?" he turned and looked at her.
"No, sometimes I'm overwhelmed ... feel as though I can't look life in the face." He saw that her lips were trembling, that her eyes were winking back the tears.
"What is it, dear?" he questioned. But she did not answer. The curtain rose upon the final act.
Silently they moved out with a throng whose silk skirts swished and rustled. The men were restless, glad of a chance at the open and a smoke; the women gay, exalted, half intoxicated by the musical appeal to their emotions. There was an atmosphere almost of hysteria in the great swiftly emptying auditorium.
"I feel sort of--smothered," Bertha said; "suppose we walk."
"Gladly," answered Frank, "but what about the coupe?"
"There's one of these new livery stables with machine shop attached not far away. They call it a garage.... We'll leave the brougham there," she said.