She explained that they had asked friends, and she should not be alone, and then he entreated March to bring any gentleman who was his guest with him.  On the way up to their box, she pressed his arm as she used in their young married days, and asked him if it was not perfect.  “I wish we were going to have it all to ourselves; no one else can appreciate the whole situation.  Do you think we have made a mistake in having the Triscoes?”

“We!” he retorted.  “Oh, that’s good!  I’m going to shirk him, when it comes to going behind the scenes.”

“No, no, dearest,” she entreated.  “Snubbing will only make it worse.  We must stand it to the bitter end, now.”

The curtain rose upon another laurelled bust of the Emperor, with a chorus of men formed on either side, who broke into the grave and noble strains of the Austrian Hymn, while every one stood.  Then the curtain fell again, and in the interval before the opera could begin, General Triscoe and his daughter came in.

Mrs. March took the splendor in which the girl appeared as a tribute to her hospitality.  She had hitherto been a little disappointed of the open homage to American girlhood which her readings of international romance had taught her to expect in Europe, but now her patriotic vanity feasted full.  Fat highhotes of her own sex levelled their lorgnettes at Miss Triscoe all around the horseshoe, with critical glances which fell blunted from her complexion and costume; the house was brilliant with the military uniforms, which we have not yet to mingle with our unrivalled millinery, and the ardent gaze of the young officers dwelt on the perfect mould of her girlish arms and neck, and the winning lines of her face.  The girl’s eyes shone with a joyful excitement, and her little head, defined by its dark hair, trembled as she slowly turned it from side to side, after she removed the airy scarf which had covered it.  Her father, in evening dress, looked the Third Emperor complaisant to a civil occasion, and took a chair in the front of the box without resistance; and the ladies disputed which should yield the best place to the other, till Miss Triscoe forced Mrs. March fondly into it for the first act at least.

The piece had to be cut a good deal to give people time for the illuminations afterwards; but as it was it gave scope to the actress who, ‘als Gast’ from a Viennese theatre, was the chief figure in it.  She merited the distinction by the art which still lingered, deeply embedded in her massive balk, but never wholly obscured.

“That is grand, isn’t it?” said March, following one of the tremendous strokes by which she overcame her physical disadvantages.  “It’s fine to see how her art can undo, for one splendid instant, the work of all those steins of beer, those illimitable licks of sausage, those boundless fields of cabbage.  But it’s rather pathetic.”

“It’s disgusting,” said his wife; and at this General Triscoe, who had been watching the actress through his lorgnette, said, as if his contrary-mindedness were irresistibly invoked: