Poppea of the Post-Office

by Mabel Osgood Wright

It was toward the end of the last act that the dance came, and as the time changed for it, something compelled Poppea, she abandoned the set steps she had been taught and improvised until the measure ended. Then the final storm of applause descended upon her. "Brava! brava!" Tostelli cried. Coming from under his bush, he first shook her by both hands and then kissed them publicly, saying for her ear alone, "For you the grand opera is near—very near!"

Still the applause continued. Tostelli looked at her to see if she could stand a repetition of the intricate song of the rather artificial scene, but she shook her head. The revulsion had come; she was no longer Sylvaine but herself, alone and among strangers but for the face of Philip, whose eyes hung on her own.

Stretching out one arm as though to enjoin silence, she stepped forward, her eyes seeing above and beyond. Then the clear legato notes of Robin Adair rang forth.

"What's this dull town to me? Robin's not here!"

The effect of this sudden transition was marvellous, tears filled eyes to which they were strangers, and for no reason that their owners could understand.

Then Poppea, as soon as she could break away, her arms laden with flowers, looked for Miss Emmy, her one desire being to get home and be alone. But Winslow, who was her shadow for the time, told her that Miss Emmy had heard through some one who had come in from the club, where Dr. Markam, the Feltons' physician, happened to be spending the evening when sent for, that Mr. Esterbrook had been taken suddenly ill. Miss Emmy had at once returned, and would send Nora back in the carriage for Poppea as soon as possible.

"Is there any quiet spot where I can wait?" begged Poppea; "I'm so tired."

"Yes, at the end of the hall there are chairs among those palms; go there, and I will bring you some supper, for I'm sure that you are hungry quite as much as tired."

For a few moments Poppea waited at the place indicated, then the cooler air of the improvised passage, which was quite empty, tempted her, and crowding herself behind one of the curtains with which it was draped, she found an opening through which she could breathe the air of the first truly spring night.

Approaching voices sounded that she recognized as belonging to the three women who, aside from the Misses Felton, had done the most toward her establishment—Mrs. Hewlett; her hostess Mrs. Hooper, Gloria's mother; and a young widow, Hortense Gerard, a favorite cousin of Bradish Winslow's.