" She took his arm with
fingers that trembled slightly. "Let us go in. The overture is
beginning."
During an intermission she whispered. "I wish I were like Carmen--bold
enough to fight the world for lo--for what I wanted."
"Aren't you?" he turned and looked at her.
"No, sometimes I'm overwhelmed ... feel as though I can't look life in
the face." He saw that her lips were trembling, that her eyes were
winking back the tears.
"What is it, dear?" he questioned. But she did not answer. The curtain
rose upon the final act.
Silently they moved out with a throng whose silk skirts swished and
rustled. The men were restless, glad of a chance at the open and a
smoke; the women gay, exalted, half intoxicated by the musical appeal to
their emotions. There was an atmosphere almost of hysteria in the great
swiftly emptying auditorium.
"I feel sort of--smothered," Bertha said; "suppose we walk."
"Gladly," answered Frank, "but what about the coupe?"
"There's one of these new livery stables with machine shop attached not
far away. They call it a garage.... We'll leave the brougham there,"
she said.
* * * * *
The night was curiously still--breathless one might have called it.
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