Rose clapped her hands. "I 've just longed to hear Lohengrin; Mrs. Ford and her son have played so much of it to me. I think it's perfectly beautiful."
"I 'm so sorry I can't go, dear; but I made a positive engagement for this afternoon and it must not be broken. But I 'll send round for Cousin Anna May. She does n't care much for the opera, but she will chaperone you. She 's not much of a talker either, so you can enjoy the music in peace. People chatter so abominably there."
From the moment the orchestra sounded the first notes of that pathetic and thrillingly appealing fore-word of the overture, Rose was lost to the world about her. She was glad of the darkness, glad no one could see or notice her intense absorption in the opening scene. Even when the lights were turned on between the acts, and the subdued murmur in the house rose to a confusing babble, she was living in the story of Elsa and her lover Knight. Elderly Cousin Anna May, seeing this, let her alone, thinking to herself:--"One has to be young to be so enthusiastic over this wornout theme."
The curtain fell; the house was brilliant with lights; confusion of talk, confusion of merry chat and laughter were all about Rose; but she sat unheeding, wondering if the element of evil would be turned into a factor of good. Her heart was aching with the intensity of feeling for the two lovers. Suddenly, a few words behind her arrested her attention. She sat with her back to the speakers--two girls in the next box, who had annoyed her more than once by their ceaseless, whispering gabble.
"I told Maude I did n't believe it."
"What did she say?"
"She said it was gospel truth."
"Do tell me what it was, I won't tell."
"Sure?"
"Not a soul."