“Is it true that Lyon is ‘epris’ there?” Carmen whispered to Henderson when she had scanned and thoroughly inventoried Margaret.

“You know as much as I do.”

“Well, you did stay a long time,” she said, in a lower tone.

As Margaret’s party waited for their carriage she saw Mrs. Eschelle and her daughter enter a shining coach, with footman and coachman in livery.  Henderson stood raising his hat.  A little white hand was shaken to him from the window, and a sweet, innocent face leaned forward—­a face with dark, eyes and golden hair, lit up with a radiant smile.  That face for the moment was New York to Margaret, and New York seemed a vain show.

Carmen threw herself back in her seat as if weary.  Mrs. Eschelle sat bolt-upright.

“What in the world, child, made you go on so tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“What made you snub Mr. Lyon so often?”

“Did I?  He won’t mind much.  Didn’t you see, mother, that he was distrait the moment he espied that girl?  I’m not going to waste my time.  I know the signs.  No fisheries imbroglio for me, thank you.”

“Fish?  Who said anything about fish?”

“Oh, the international business.  Ask Mr. Henderson to explain it.  The English want to fish in our waters, I believe.  I think Mr. Lyon has had a nibble from a fresh-water fish.  Perhaps it’s the other way, and he’s hooked.  There be fishers of men, you know, mother.”

“You are a strange child, Carmen.  I hope you will be civil to both of them.”  And they rode on in silence.

VIII

In real life the opera or the theatre is only the prologue to the evening.  Our little party supped at Delgardo’s.  The play then begins.  New York is quite awake by that time, and ready to amuse itself.  After the public duty, the public attitudinizing, after assisting at the artificial comedy and tragedy which imitate life under a mask, and suggest without satisfying, comes the actual experience.  My gentle girl—­God bless your sweet face and pure heart!—­who looked down from the sky-parlor at the Metropolitan upon the legendary splendor of the stage, and the alluring beauty and wealth of the boxes, and went home to create in dreams the dearest romance in a maiden’s life, you did not know that for many the romance of the night just began when the curtain fell.

The streets were as light as day.  At no other hour were the pavements so thronged, was there such a crush of carriages, such a blockade of cars, such running, and shouting, greetings and decorous laughter, such a swirl of pleasurable excitement.  Never were the fashionable cafes and restaurants so crowded and brilliant.  It is not a carnival time; it is just the flow and ebb of a night’s pleasure, an electric night which has all of the morning except its peace, a night of the gayest opportunity and unlimited possibility.