“Where are we going this evening?”

It was delightful to be so free, she told herself repeatedly.  Friends?  They didn’t need any friends.  For the present they had each other—­enough!  “Yes, and for some time to come!” But there always came to her a little qualm of uneasiness when her thinking reached this point.  How were friends to be found in this city?

“Oh, later—­later—­later!”

And rising impatiently with a shrug, she went into the nursery.  The nurse had been so glad to get back that most of her old hostility toward Ethel had vanished.  Still there were signs now and then of a sneer which said, “You’ll soon be paying no more attention to this poor bairn than her mother did before you.”  And it was as well to show the woman how blind and ignorant she was—­to make her see the difference.

“Boheme” was the surprise that night.  It was Ethel’s first night at the opera.  And looking up at the boxes, at the women she had read about, the gorgeous gowns and the jewels they wore, and watching them laugh and chatter; or looking far above them to the dim tiers of galleries reaching up into the dark; or again with eyes glued on the stage feasting upon Paris, art, “Bohemia,” youth and romance; squeezing her companion’s hand and in flashes recollecting dazzling little incidents of the fortnight just gone by—­her mind went roving into the future, finding friends and wide rich lives shimmering and sparkling like the sunlight on the sea.  As that Italian music rose, all at once she wanted to give herself, “To give and give and give him all!” The tears welled up in her happy eyes.

“However!  To be very gay!”

Later that evening in a cafe she leaned across the table and asked excited questions about “Boheme” and Paris.  What was Paris really like?  The Latin Quarter, the Beaux Arts?  What did he do there, how did he live?  In what queer and funny old rooms?  Did he live alone or with somebody else?  Something was clutching now at her breast. (Farrar had sung “Mimi” that night).  “Don’t be silly!” she told herself.  “Oh, Joe!” she said, and she looked down at the fork in her hand which she was fingering nervously.  Then she looked quickly up and smiled.  “What man did you room with?  Any one?” He was smiling across the table still.  “You inquisitive woman,” said his eyes.

“No, I lived alone,” he replied.  “And I sat at a drafting board—­with a sweater on—­it used to be cold.”

“Oh, you poor dear!”

“And I worked,” he continued, “like a bull pup.  And along toward morning I tied a wet towel around my head—­”

“Oh, Joe!” Ethel’s foot pressed his, and they laughed at each other.  “But there must have been,” she cried, “so much besides!  Joe Lanier, you are lying!  There were cafes—­and student balls and fancy dress—­and singing—­and queer streets at night!”

“That’s so,” he answered solemnly, “the city of Paris did have streets.  You walked on them—­from place to place.”