It so happened that a year elapsed before I visited the theatre again. During that time I had fallen in love with the most charming girl in the world. In my college days I had patronized her young-maiden adoration; but when she came home, after three years of travel, the most self-possessed, as well as the most beautiful of women, the adoration and the indifference exchanged places. All I seemed to win from her was good-comradeship and confidence; and they were due to the friend of her childhood.
She had travelled with her mother, whose delight was picture-galleries, court-balls, and dinners at embassies. Of unconventional life, Deborah had seen nothing, and she listened eagerly to my descriptions of nooks and corners in New York.
One day her mother yielded. Deborah might go through the foreign quarter with me, if I would promise not to bring her into danger from men or germs.
For our first expedition I chose the Italian theatre. It was safe, picturesque, unique. We drove to the door in a hansom, and I instructed the driver to call for us at eleven o'clock.
As we entered the tiny foyer my companion murmured a little "Ah!" of delight. The walls had been decorated by the manager himself with wonderful pictures of kings, queens, knights, and ladies. The colors were green, red, and white, because those were the paints Pietro had on hand. Upon one side Orlando and Olliviero were fighting their famous duel in the presence of Charlemagne and his gorgeous court. Pietro's admiration was for legs. Those of Orlando had muscles unknown to anatomists, and those of his cousin were big enough for two Ollivieros.
Beatrice was making an angel.
While Deborah was trembling with pleasure in this work of art, I heard the latch of the ticket-office door click, and, turning, saw Beatrice. She stood upon the threshold, gazing not at me but at Deborah. In a year she had grown tall. Her hair was coiled upon her neck, and her eyes seemed to be deeper and tawnier than ever.
"What a pretty child!" exclaimed my companion.
"It's Beatrice," I answered. "How do you do, little girl? How is Pietro?"