She said this solemnly, and Kate could not conceal a smile at her “daughter of the air” using these time-worn domestic plaints.

“You ought to lie down and sleep every day, Marna.  Wouldn’t that help?”

“That’s what George is always saying.  He thinks I ought to sleep while the baby is taking his nap.  But, mercy me, I just look forward to that time to get my work done.”

She turned her eager, weary face toward Kate, and her friend marked the delicacy in it which comes with maternity.  It was pallid and rather pinched; the lips hung a trifle too loosely; the veins at the temples showed blue and full.  Kate couldn’t beat down the vision that would rise before her eyes of the Marna she had known in the old days, who had arisen at noon, coming forth from her chamber like Deirdre, fresh with the freshness of pagan delight.  She remembered the crowd that had followed in her train, the manner in which people had looked after her on the street, and the little furore she had invariably awakened when she entered a shop or tea-room.  As Marna shook out the gold-of-ophir satin, dimmed now and definitely out of date, there surged up in her friend a rebellion against Marna’s complete acquiescence in the present scheme of things.  But Marna slipped cheerfully into her gown.

“I shall keep my cloak on while we go down the aisle,” she declared.  “Nobody notices what one has on when one is safely seated.  Particularly,” she added, with one of her old-time flashes, “if one’s neck is not half bad.  Now I’m ready to be fastened, mavourneen.  Dear me, it is rather tight, isn’t it?  But never mind that.  Get the hooks together somehow.  I’ll hold my breath.  Now, see, with this scarf about me, I shan’t look such a terrible dowd, shall I?  Only my gloves are unmistakably shabby and not any too clean, either.  George won’t let me use gasoline, you know, and it takes both money and thought to get them to the cleaners.  Do you remember the boxes of long white gloves I used to have in the days when tante Barsaloux was my fairy godmother?  Gloves were an immaterial incident then.  ‘Nevermore, nevermore,’ as our friend the raven remarked.  Come, we’ll go.  I won’t wear my old opera cloak in the street-car; that would be too absurd, especially now that the bullion on it has tarnished.  That long black coat of mine is just the thing—­equally appropriate for market, mass, or levee.  Oh, George, dear, good-bye!  Good-bye, you sweetheart.  I hate to leave you, truly I do.  And I do hope and pray the baby won’t wake.  If he does—­”

“Come along, Marna,” commanded Kate.  “We mustn’t miss that next car.”

* * * * *

They barely were in their seats when the lights went up, and before them glittered the Auditorium, that vast and noble audience chamber identified with innumerable hours of artistic satisfaction.  The receding arches of the ceiling glittered like incandescent nebulae; the pictured procession upon the proscenium arch spoke of the march of ideas—­of the passionate onflow of man’s dreams—­of whatever he has held beautiful and good.