"I am sure I saw you in New York, at the opera?"
She bent over to him as she spoke, and lowered her voice. Her look was merry, perhaps a little satirical. It put him on his guard.
"Yes, I was there. You were pointed out to me."
"You were with some old friends of mine. I suppose they gave you an account of me?"
"They were beginning it; but then Melba began to sing, and some horrid people in the next box said 'Hush!'"
She studied him in a laughing silence a moment, her chin on her hand, then said:
"That is the worst of the opera; it stops so much interesting conversation."
"You don't care for the music?"
"Oh, I am a musician!" she said quickly. "I teach it. But I am like the mad King of Bavaria—I want an opera-house to myself."
"You teach it?" he said, in amazement.