"Not at all," he said in quite a serious voice, "and if I heard it a thousand times I could not believe it. You are too sure of yourself to give way to such a sentiment."
"But we cannot rely very much upon ourselves under some circumstances."
"Very true, and very fortunately, for we resolve to support attitudes under some circumstances, that are neither true to ourselves, nor fair to our fellow-creatures. Don't you think so?" he asked, taking my fan out of my lap and looking intently at it.
"I don't think I understand you very well," I answered timidly.
Just then the sounds of voices were hushed, and the loud strains of Rossini's Semiramide filled the room. That ended our conversation for awhile. The music proceeded with little or no intermission, for upwards of an hour. All the vocal and instrumental talent of the city was present, and the audience was treated to a rare and most happily rendered repertoire. Miss Hartmann had just finished an Arietta of Beethoven's, which was rapturously received, when Alice Merivale stole up behind me, radiant in pale green mist—as it seemed to me—to ask how I enjoyed the selections.
I could scarcely think of answering her until my eyes had taken in the full beauty of her face and form.
"I want you all to be in a very good humour, before I begin" she said coquettishly, "for I will try your patience very hard, yours especially, Dr. Campbell," she added, looking at him now for the first time, "you are such a merciless critic—a perfect epicure in music."
He smiled languidly at her, and swept a glance over her from head to foot.
"Is it any wonder" he asked lazily; "when you spoil us by feasting us with the perfection of every sort of loveliness, what else can you expect?"
She touched him smartly on the nose with a roll of music she held in her hand—for they were old friends—and flitted away, saying: