But now he made no such protest.  He seemed to consider her suggestion and to think it—­well, worthy of consideration; and this should have been very pleasing to her; for did it not mean that she had gained her point?

“You will think over it, Bertie?” she said.  Her voice was now scarcely so full of eagerness as it had been before.  Was that because she did not want to weary him by her persistence?  Even the suggestion to a man that he should love a certain woman should, she knew, be made with tact.

“I have been thinking over it,” he said at last; but only after a long pause.

“Oh, I am so glad!”

And she actually believed that she was glad.

“I thought about her aboard the yacht.”

“Did you?  I fancied that you would think of——­But I am so glad!”

“I thought of her as my good angel.  Those words which she said to me—­”

“She has been your good angel, and I—­”

“Ella, Ella, she has been our good angel—­you said so.”

“And don’t you think that I meant it?  Some women—­she is one of them—­are born to lead men upward; others——­Ah, there, it is on the stage:  Carmen, the enchantress, Michaela, the good angel.  But I am so glad!  She is coming to stay with us up the river; you must be with us too.  You cannot possibly know her yet.  But a week by her side—­you will, I know, come to perceive what she is—­the sweetest—­the most perfect!”

Still he made no reply.  He was looking earnestly at the conductor, who was pulling his musicians together for the second act.

“You will come to us, Bertie?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“I dare not promise,” said he.  “I feel just now like a man who is still dazed, on being suddenly awakened.  I have not yet begun to see things as they are.  I am not sure of myself.  I will let you know later on.”

Then the conductor tapped his desk, and those of the audience who had left their places returned.  Stephen Linton slipped into his chair; his wife took up her lorgnette as the first jingle of the tambourines was heard, and the curtain rose upon the picturesque tawdriness of the company assembled at the Senor Lois Pastia’s place of entertainment.

Ella gave all her attention to the opera—­to that tragedy of the weakness of the flesh, albeit the spirit may be willing to listen to good.  Alas! that the flesh should be so full of color and charm and seduction, while the spirit is pale, colorless, and set to music in a minor key!

Carmen flashed about the stage under the brilliant lights, looking like a lovely purple butterfly—­a lovely purple oriole endowed with the double glory of plumage and song, and men whose hearts beat in unison with the heart-beats of that sensuous music through which she expressed herself, loved her; watched her with ravished eyes; heard her with ravished ears—­yes, as men love such women; until the senses recover from the intoxication of her eyes and her limbs and her voice.  And in the third act the sweet Michaela came on with her song of the delight of purity, and peace, and home.  She sang it charmingly, everyone allowed, and hoped that Carmen would sing as well in the last act as she had sung in the others.