At the opera I modestly took the end stall of the three, but Carrie moved me along. She then settled herself listlessly on my right, while Bassishaw, who had arrived, glowered at the side-drums on my left.
He was utterly indifferent to the entrance of the conductor, and the overture to Tristan evidently brought no peace to his soul. He fumed unholily, and threw himself about in his seat in a way that drew a remonstrating remark from an ardent Vaaagnerite on his left. At the end of the first act he went out for a cigarette, apologising with formality as Carrie gathered up her gown to allow him to pass. Carrie’s pretty neck bowed a graceful aloofness. When his straight back disappeared behind the curtain, my sister throwing a slanting glance to see if he turned round, I sought her eyes, and leaned over, speaking softly.
“Was it about your writing, my literary little sister?” I asked.
She assented with a little gulp.
“Tell me, my dear,” I said, turning my back on the Vaaagnerite next Arthur’s empty seat, who was talking the cult rather stridently.
She told me in pure innocence of the Conflict between Literature and Love. She spoke of the Devotion to Work and the Sacredness of a Mission. The dear little soul was going to enlighten the peoples!
“And I asked Arthur’s opinion,” she said, her breast rising.
Never till then had I realised the forgetfulness of love.
Arthur’s opinion on literature!
“And what did Arthur say, Caroline?” I asked, composing myself as best I could.