Of late he had been going to his aunt’s but seldom, and he had stayed away because he wanted, above all things in the world, to go.  It had become an agony to go—­an anguish to absent himself.  Which being interpreted, means that he was in love.  And whom should he love but Marna?  Why should any man trouble himself to love another woman when this glancing, flashing, singing bird was winging it through the blue?  Were any other lips so tender, so tremulous, so arched, so sweet?  The breath that came between them was perfumed with health; the little rows of gleaming teeth were indescribably provocative.  Actually, the little red tongue itself seemed to fold itself upward, at the edges, like a tender leaf.  As for her nostrils, they were delicately flaring like those of some wood creature, and fashioned for the enjoyment of odorous banquets undreamed of by duller beings.  Her eyes, like pools in shade, breathing mystery and dreams, got between him and his sleep and held him intoxicated in his bed.

Yes, that was Marna as she looked to the eye of love.  She was made for one man’s love and nothing else, yet she was about to become the well-loved of the great world!  She was not for him—­was not made for a man of his mould.  She had flashed from obscurity to something rich and plenteous, obviously the child of Destiny—­a little princess waiting for her crown.  He had not even talked to her many times, and she had no notion that when she entered the room he trembled; and that when she spoke to him and turned the swimming loveliness of her eyes upon him, he had trouble to keep his own from filling with tears.

And this was the night of her dedication to the world; the world was seating her upon her throne, acclaiming her coronation.  There was nothing for him but to go on through an interminably long life, bearing a brave front and hiding his wound.

He loathed the incoherent music; detested the conductor; despised the orchestra; felt murderous toward the Italian tenor; and could have slain the man who wrote the opera, since it made his bright girl a target for praise and blame.  He feared his aunt’s scrutiny, for she had sharp perceptions, and he could have endured anything better than that she should spy upon his sacred pain.  So he sat by her side, passionately solitary amid a crowd and longing to hide himself from the society of all men.

But he must be distrait, indeed, if he could forget the claim his good aunt had upon him.  He knew how she loved gayety; and her daily life offered her little save labor and monotony.

“Supper next,” he said with forced cheerfulness as they came out of the opera-house together.  “I’ll do the ordering.  You’ll enjoy a meal for once which is served independently of you.”

He tried to talk about this and that as they made their way on to a glaring below-stairs restaurant, where after-theater folk gathered.  The showy company jarred hideously on Fitzgerald, yet gave him a chance to save his face by pretending to watch it.  He could tell his aunt who some of the people were, and she would transfer her curiosity from him to them.