When McKann went into town in the morning he found that every seat in the music-hall was sold.  He telephoned his wife to that effect, and, thinking he had settled the matter, made his reservation on the 11.25 train for New York.  He was unable to get a drawing-room because this same Kitty Ayrshire had taken the last one.  He had not intended going to New York until the following week, but he preferred to be absent during Mrs. Post’s incumbency.

In the middle of the morning, when he was deep in his correspondence, his wife called him up to say the enterprising Mrs. Post had telephoned some musical friends in Sewickley and had found that two hundred folding-chairs were to be placed on the stage of the concert-hall, behind the piano, and that they would be on sale at noon.  Would he please get seats in the front row?  McKann asked if they would not excuse him, since he was going over to New York on the late train, would be tired, and would not have time to dress, etc.  No, not at all.  It would be foolish for two women to trail up to the stage unattended.  Mrs. Post’s husband always accompanied her to concerts, and she expected that much attention from her host.  He needn’t dress, and he could take a taxi from the concert-hall to the East Liberty station.

The outcome of it all was that, though his bag was at the station, here was McKann, in the worst possible humour, facing the large audience to which he was well known, and sitting among a lot of music students and excitable old maids.  Only the desperately zealous or the morbidly curious would endure two hours in those wooden chairs, and he sat in the front row of this hectic body, somehow made a party to a transaction for which he had the utmost contempt.

When McKann had been in Paris, Kitty Ayrshire was singing at the Comique, and he wouldn’t go to hear her—­even there, where one found so little that was better to do.  She was too much talked about, too much advertised; always being thrust in an American’s face as if she were something to be proud of.  Perfumes and petticoats and cutlets were named for her.  Some one had pointed Kitty out to him one afternoon when she was driving in the Bois with a French composer—­old enough, he judged, to be her father—­who was said to be infatuated, carried away by her.  McKann was told that this was one of the historic passions of old age.  He had looked at her on that occasion, but she was so befrilled and befeathered that he caught nothing but a graceful outline and a small, dark head above a white ostrich boa.  He had noted with disgust, however, the stooped shoulders and white imperial of the silk-hatted man beside her, and the senescent line of his back.  McKann described to his wife this unpleasing picture only last night, while he was undressing, when he was making every possible effort to avert this concert party.  But Bessie only looked superior and said she wished to hear Kitty Ayrshire sing, and that her “private life” was something in which she had no interest.