He was a fine-looking young man, with tailor-made shoulders, a small waist and silver and black on his sword-belt.  When he turned to the stage, I looked at him through my opera-glasses.  On closer inspection, he was even handsomer than I had thought.  A lady joined him in the box and he took off her cloak, while she stood up gazing down at the stalls, pulling up her long black gloves.  She wore a row of huge pearls, which fell below her waist, and a black jet decollete dress.  Few people wore low dresses at the opera and I saw half the audience fixing her with their glasses.  She was evidently famous.  Her hair was fox-red and pinned back on each side of her temples with Spanish combs of gold and pearls; she surveyed the stalls with cavernous eyes set in a snow-white face; and in her hand she held a bouquet of lilac orchids.  She was the best-looking woman I saw all the time I was in Germany and I could not take my eyes off her.  The white officer began to look about the opera-house when my red dress caught his eye.  He put up his glasses, and I instantly put mine down.  Although the lights were lowered for the overture, I saw him looking at me for some time.

I had been in the habit of walking about in the entr’actes and, when the curtain dropped at the end of the first act, I left the box.  It did not take me long to identify the white officer.  He was not accompanied by his lady, but stood leaning against the wall smoking a cigar and talking to a man; as I passed him I had to stop for a moment for fear of treading on his outstretched toes.  He pulled himself erect to get out of my way; I looked up and our eyes met; I don’t think I blush easily, but something in his gaze may have made me blush.  I lowered my eyelids and walked on.

The Meistersinger was my favourite opera and so it appeared to be of the Dresdeners; Wagner, having quarrelled with the authorities, refused to allow the Ring to be played in the Dresden Opera House; and every one was tired of the swans and doves of Lohengrin and Tannhauser.

There was a great crowd that night and, as it was raining when we came out, I hung about, hoping to get a cab; I saw my white officer with his lady, but he did not see me; I heard him before he got into the brougham give elaborate orders to the coachman to put him down at some club.

After waiting for some time, as no cab turned up, I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and started to walk home; when the crowd scattered I found myself alone and I turned into a little street which led into Luttichau-strasse.  Suddenly I became aware that I was being followed; I heard the even steps and the click of spurs of some one walking behind me; I should not have noticed this had I not halted under a lamp to pull on my hood, which the wind had blown off.  When I stopped, the steps also stopped.  I walked on, wondering if it had been my imagination, and again I heard the click of spurs coming nearer.  The street being deserted, I was unable to endure it any longer; I turned round and there was the officer.  His black cloak hanging loosely over his shoulders showed me the white uniform and silver belt.  He saluted me and asked me in a curious Belgian French if he might accompany me home.  I said: